Battle of Hetalia
by i-swear-we-were-sufinite
Summary: Berwald Oxenstierna is one of many fighters in the bestselling console game, Battle of Hetalia. His entire life had been focused on fighting battles . . . but what happens when a new character brings him a new purpose in life?
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: Hey! This will be a multi-chapter Hetalia AU adventure! It's very SuFin-centric, but many characters make appearances. I clearly don't own Hetalia, because a fifteen-year-old teenage girl from America would never be able to create a Japanese webcomic. Questions/reviews are always accepted!)**

Berwald cleared his thoughts, trying to distract from his previous actions. The man he faced was no longer an ally; nights spent watching his friendly smiles would be forgotten once it started. He stared at his opponent, the dirty-blonde, glasses-bearing man of average height, programmed with impossible strength and an excess of energy. Of course, he had his faults—his attacks were slow and he talked during his battles. Berwald was superior in height, silent, and easily turned into a deadly machine of destruction. None of this mattered, though—he would not be in control of his actions. All of his faith was placed in an outsider of fifteen years.

His opponent introduced himself cockily and routinely. A moment later Berwald gave a silent presentation of his skill.

_"Round One—decide the destiny." _The familiar rumble of an announcer flashed through Berwald's ears, and he begged silently that chance was on his side.

The fight had been a disaster. Alfred F. Jones, the man he fought, beat him in a matter of seconds. The outsider was skilled, as he did nothing but wake up, play _Battle of Hetalia_, eat, and continue the cycle. Had that one boy left Challenge Mode alone, Berwald may have stood more of a chance. Loosing wasn't something that could be controlled, but the towering Swedish arena fighter still felt a pang of humiliation. The player had given him a winning streak before that one battle. Now, he walked shamefully back to the Selection Stage, where fighters awaited their chance to play. Upon reaching a large, cement-walled room, he stepped between Polish fighter Feliks Lukasiewecz and an empty gap, for the character who took that space had yet to appear.

"That was totally rough, man. I cringed at everything." The short Pole's words did nothing but depress Berwald even more. "Hey, at least the player dude actually picks you. You could be sitting around, watching everyone else have more fun than you." Pangs of guilt stabbed the defeated fighter. Feliks wasn't very popular with the game's particular owner. Davey Dikinson, the teen who devoted his life to virtually fighting a group of characters that resembled the United Nations, usually tried to find the strongest warrior the game offered. Considering his standard pose was his hand on one hip and one of his costumes was a cocktail dress, it wasn't hard to see why Feliks was constantly out of favor. Berwald sighed, once again grateful for his status.

"You'll prove y'self one day," he offered, trying his best to be comforting. The blonde opened his mouth to speak, but an echo of "_Character Select—Please await selection" _roared through the cold, lifeless room. Everyone in the room froze immediately; the atmosphere grew tense, nervous. Who would face each other next? A majority of the characters stared ahead, transfixed on the massive leaderboard that projected statistics. Number of fights won, number of fights lost, number of times played, and highest score achieved filled it. Berwald's failure would not earn him a second chance, yet the desire to battle surged through his blood.

"_Player One—Alfred F. Jones. Alfred F. Jones, please step forward."_ The victor of Berwald's fight cheered and stepped away from the line of fighters. His smile was wide and excitement shone in his blue eyes. _Good for him, _Berwald thought, though he felt a pang of dissapointment. Alfred was one of the youngest characters in the game, and yet his stats earned him the top ranking on the leaderboard. Alfred would not leave Davey's favor anytime soon.

"_Computer Player—Ivan Braginski. Ivan Braginski, please step forward." _A man Berwald's height smiled and stepped calmly out of line. His weapon, a water pipe, struck the ground as he grinned at Alfred.

"Looks like I get to destroy you," Ivan teased, violet eyes gleaming. Alfred scoffed.

"Yeah right, and I'm going to kick your ass!" Alfred punched the air and whooped in delight. Before their banter could continue, the two were ushered to the room's left door, the gateway to the arena. The rest of the players casually wandered off to the right, where they would lounge as a screen projected the ongoing battle.

Twenty minutes later, the battle still raged. The two figures on screen threw glowing punches colorful strikes; both are on the verge of defeat. An adjacent screen showed Davey, who cursed frantically as Alfred avoided a death via water pipe at his command. All eyes in the large, circular lounge room were peeled to the fight; some take sides, others allowed fate to take its course. Punches went nowhere. The outsider appears to go by a "dodge everything" tactic, but he bears no signs of giving up.

"I'm betting on Ivan," a tanned man with a cape and a white mask stated. "Kid can't dodge him forever."

Another character, a long-haired, lethargic man spoke. "Well, if _you _think he's going to win, _I _think Alfred's going to beat him!"

"Don't just go against me for the sake of opposing me! Ivan's in Challenge Mode; if Berwald didn't last twenty seconds, then Alfred is going to cry bloody tears of pain when he leaves the arena!"

"I believe in Al, he's number one. Berwald is number four." This angered Berwald slightly, but it was the truth. Maybe he really did stand no chance against the American fighter. Anger boiled inside of him. He would have to work even harder if he were to remain in favor.

"Well, I think that _neither _of them are going to win!" French fighter Francis Bonnefoy tossed his shoulder-length blonde curls. A mage with thick eyebrows rolled his eyes.

"How is that even possible? There are no ties! It's win or lose!"

"True, Arthur, but the player can always withdraw—"

"Then Ivan wins, you bloody idiot! God, you're a _default _character and you barely know how to play the game!" Francis scoffed; Berwald decided to tune out the boisterous conversation around him and focus on the battle. Alfred was very close to achieving a combo attack, but his fists flailed around pathetically as Ivan circled him, attempting to cast a spine-shattering blow. A blue meter rose and rose . . . could it be? Alfred immediately launched forward; his legs struck Ivan's gentle face in rapid-fire action. A jab and a final punch sent thick, towering Ivan to the floor.

_"K.O."_ The characters that gathered around the screen cheered, though those who supported Ivan groaned a little. This victory would give Alfred his highest score yet. He smiled and punched the air as _"Congratulations, Player One" _flashed across the screen. On the adjacent screen, the brunette, acne-ridden teenager cheered. Surely, his friends would be impressed with this fight. Berwald sighed. His chance to prove himself favorable vanished, which left a pit in his stomach. At least he'd still be chosen as Alfred's opponent.

Usually, the announcement to return to the Selection Stage would sound, and all of the fighters would gather in the required room. The time outside of their surface was three-forty, meaning that the player might save and quit. But no announcement of the sort came, and instead, everyone stared at the screen, which was now pitch black.

A female voice immediately told what was happening. _"New Player Unlocked—Tino Väinämöinen. Country—Finland, Weapon—None, Special Attack—Finnish Fury, Favorite Food—Salmiakki." _

**(A/N: The game in this story isn't my idea. This story was inspired by this trailer: /lRHdNhBYQy4. The trailer is fan-made, which makes me mad because I wish this was a real game.)**


	2. Chapter 2

On screen stood the most adorable boy Berwald had ever seen. His eyes were lilac and shone with excitement. A white beret rested on his pale blonde hair. Like many of the other characters, he wore a black cross at the next of his pale blue uniform. The screen faded black again and an announcement was made, ordering the players to Selection Stage. Berwald avoided the cheerful side conversations and walked to his spot. Feliks gossiped on the way to his right; the newcomer stared nervously ahead to his left. The first exposure to this world was quite nerve-racking; Berwald was unlocked just three weeks ago yet the memories of knowing nothing but how to fight were still fresh in his mind.

"What's going on?" His accent melted Berwald's heart. It was ridiculous, but his voice was almost unbearably cute. "I'm not in the middle of a fight, am I?" Berwald shook his head.

"Just be quiet," he commanded. Red warning lights enforced Berwald's order; selection was now in effect.

_"Player One—Tino Väinämöinen. Tino Väinämöinen, please step forward." _Though Tino didn't look particularly strong, his choosing was easily predicted. Davey usually tried out new characters. Automatically, he jumped forward and let out a cheerful cry. Introductions were intuitive. Experience was not.

_"Computer Player—Randomizer chosen!" _A spotlight rolled over each character and illuminated a dark-haired player about Tino's height. _"Computer Player—Lovino Vargas. Lovino Vargas, please step forward." _He twirled a white flag as he smiled with furrowed eyebrows. The two of them whisked off to fight, and once again, the lounge was filled with boisterous fighters, all curious of the newcomers' skill.

Berwald underestimated the young-faced Finn. His fists never rested; every second of battle was occupied by fiery punches and jabs. The only reason his fight took longer than three minutes was because Lovino was hard to catch. Red-faced and panting, the shorter fighters walk through the lounge's door, noticing the signal of the end of the day. Lovino threw his flag to the floor and sulked.

"What the hell? You're supposed to be level one; you've just been unlocked!" Tino jumped at the sudden shouting, his face still bright red from the fight.

"It's not my fault; I wasn't in control of my actions!" Lovino grumbled, realizing that arguing any longer was pointless.

"Well I hate you! Beat me like that again and I'll show you what a _real _fighter looks like!" The group of players started to disband; Lovino sulked towards his friend Antonio, separating Tino from further conflict. A few of the characters congratulated him on his first victory. He accepted his praise humbly as he walked in circles. Berwald watched him, transfixed on his quick-moving legs. He decided to follow him, to listen in on his conversations. After all, he may have to fight him. Some characters strategized by making friends. Had his code contained social skills, he may have done this himself.

" . . . Don't listen to Lovino, he's just a bastard," Alfred assured the newcomer. "He says things like that to his own brother. Just hates to loose, like everyone here really. Well, if your job is to win, why would you like loosing?" The scenery changed significantly when they were powered off. Outside of the stadium, where the fighting and Selections take place, a small pathway leads to an illuminated city. Gleaming stars lit up the sky; the windows of bleak gray buildings glowed warm yellows. Berwald's usual night involved a drink at his favorite bar, then a good book, ending in a peaceful sleep. This would not be a usual night. Though he preferred to distance himself from the others, he saw no harm in watching Tino interact with everyone.

_Watching._ Shame stopped Berwald in his tracks. What was he doing, walking a few feet away from some new fighter, just to stare at the back of his head? He denied that thought, though a small part of him knew it was true. What if Tino caught him? How would he explain a situation like _that_? Sure, he was pretty and Berwald was impressed by his performance, but he couldn't explain the need to follow someone he didn't intend to talk to. He never cared about any of the other people. Only strategy mattered to him.

Purple eyes turned to meet his. Berwald's pulse quickened as his thoughts stuttered. He was caught, he was in trouble . . . but Tino's smile was bright, and nothing in his round face showed any signs of anger.

"Hey! Alfred's showing me to a great bar; do you want to come with us?" Berwald's heart stopped. In the three weeks he had been unlocked, not a single person had invited him to drink with them. The shorter man urged him forward; Berwald shrugged and joined the two. He was already caught, so there was no point leaving. Tino's smile faded a little as he came closer. He immediately gazed at the ground, leaving Berwald wondering what he had done wrong. He hadn't reacted like this when they were talking in the Selection Stage. Memories of others cowering away resurfaced, and he knew—he was programmed with the scariest face. Intimidation was part of his tactic—though Berwald really wasn't a scary person at all. He could throw a great punch, but he liked the peace of nights at home, his fire crackling, a book of poetry in his hands. He enjoyed solitude, so he never minded the menacing stares that drove others away. Suddenly, it bothered him. Berwald opened his mouth to reassure the new fighter, but he could not form words. His social skills weren't that great. He stammered a few unintelligible noises before looking away from the lovely, violet-eyed man.

"Don't mind 'Waldo, he's not scary. I beat him like a bazillion times." If he was hotheaded, he would've punched Alfred in the face. He was generally humble, but that statement shattered his pride. At least Tino laughed a little.

They reached the game's most popular bar, Knockout, in a couple of minutes. The air was heavy with smoke and heat, causing Berwald to cough. Lights flared as bodies danced; in the center of the room stood a boxing ring, where friends could duel each other to their hearts' content. Currently, Canadian fighter Matthew Williams kicked Francis, whose sword flew out of his hand at the surprise attack. He tore his eyes away as he sat on Tino's left, trying to avoid staring at him. He didn't want to scare him.

A bartender took drink orders as the two customers next to them fought verbally. Berwald eavesdropped for a little while, catching things like "One more word, Gilbert, and this frying pan is going to smack your dick", before Alfred announced that he was going to watch the fight, and that they should call him when his drink arrives.

"So . . ." Berwald began, instantly regretting the decision to speak. "Favorite food's salmiakki?" Of all the things he could have said . . . Tino stared at him strangely before replying.

"Y-Yeah. It's really good, well, unless you don't like black licorice. Then I really don't recommend it, because it _is_ black licorice, in a way . . ." Tino gazed at the table, avoiding eye contact. "So, um . . . how long have you been around?"

"'Bout three weeks," Berwald answered. A silence emerged between the two of them, adding a certain thickness to the atmosphere. It suffocated Berwald, and he instantly regretted his decision to socialize. Tino may be cute, but did it mean anything? He was just one of many. Berwald shouldn't care about him.

The arrival of their drinks lightened the atmosphere a little. Tino called Alfred back and the two of them began to talk about their hometowns. Every character supposedly lived in the capital of their country of origin, but those regions were impossible to access. Berwald never existed in Stockholm, Sweden, but he still had memories of laughing giddily through snow-covered forests. They were like echoes in his mind; they were present, but they weren't as strong as his memories of fighting. At the end of the day, fighting is all he had ever known.

Perhaps that was how he didn't know how to deal with Tino. Stalking him after hours, watching his every move, claiming his focus was his studying for battle . . . he was strangely attracted to him, but he didn't know what to do. Watch him? Talk to him? Fight him? Fighting always seemed like the best option. Somehow, Berwald didn't think it would work in this case.

"You really think you can beat me, you bloody Yank? I'll have you know that you're only so great because you're currently in favor!" Arthur stood behind Alfred, who just finished his drink. He turned to face his challenger.

"Not true, man! I'll beat you in five seconds!" Without saying any goodbyes, he jumped onto the ring and prepared to start a new fight, leaving Tino and Berwald alone once again.

"Wow, I'm jealous . . . I wish I could be ranked so high." The only way Tino could improve his rank was to reach higher levels, and that depended on how often the outsider used him in fights. The Finn didn't seem to know, however, which gave Berwald an idea. Even in a situation like this, perhaps fighting _could _be the solution.

"Teach you how to fight," Berwald stammered. Tino's face showed confusion. "''ll train you." Tino quivered at the sight of him, and Berwald could barely speak to others, but somehow, the plan seemed perfect. Berwald could spend time with him, and maybe there was a slight chance of Tino improving. "'M ranked pretty high."

"If that's so, I'm sure you know what you're doing," Tino muttered, a bit unsure. "Alright, when can we start?"


	3. Chapter 3

The next night, Berwald and Tino lingered on the stage, after all the others had retired to relaxation. It had been a tough day for Tino, who lost quickly to Ivan. Even though his skill level increased again, he had a lot to prove. Determination shone in his eyes as he threw a couple of practice punches, fists shining like ice.

"Yer off balance," Berwald observed as he watcher the shorter warrior wobble. "Use the core 'f your body." Tino tried to fix his stance, but his legs were too far apart and he was exposing too many weak points. He tried to kick with his back leg but he fell flat on his face. Berwald stepped over to him and held out his hand. As he helped Tino up, he felt just how thin his fingers were. His entire frame was built for speed rather than strength. Berwald made a mental note to aware his student of those advantages. Tino pushed white-blonde bangs out of his face and tried again to correct his posture.

"No." Berwald rested his hands on Tino's hips, immediately regretting the move. They fit perfectly in his sturdy, calloused hands. A chill ran up Berwald's spine as he struggled to remember what exactly the correct posture was. Nervously, Tino's eyes fell on his and he froze. He looked so petrified, yet he still came to learn from _him_ . . .

"You determined?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Tino nodded quickly, shuffling his feet to match Berwald's stance.

"I just want to have fun," Tino admitted, shrugging. "I heard that when your rank is higher, you get to fight more, and that means less time sitting on the couch in the lounge, though it's a very comfortable couch." A laugh arose in Berwald's throat, but it stayed there. Exactly how long Tino's innocent desires would last, he didn't know. Eventually, all everyone ever thought about was winning. "What do you like about fighting, Berwald?" His heart began to pound and he gazed emptily at the wall in front of him. He was in shock. Who cared if he liked fighting? What _did_ he like about it, anyways? Something about snapping the others' necks was satisfying, he supposed. Perhaps it was the triumph of winning, of defeating the enemy and claiming glory. Maybe it was the action of the fight itself, with its wild blows and flying limbs. In all honesty, he _hurt_ people, and his life revolved around causing pain. Did he like it? _Could_ he like it?

"'S my job," he decided on. "Want to do a good job."

"Oh," Tino shrugged. "Well, you're doing a better job than I am!" Tino laughed awkwardly, breaking Berwald's chain of thought. "Am I standing right?"

Over the next few days, Tino warmed up to Berwald. He tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible, but he was more willing to approach him and much more outgoing around him. While battled raged on black screens, they talked about their homes, their hobbies, and other trivial things. Other than fighting, Tino enjoyed hunting, sitting in saunas, heavy metal, and strange festivals. Berwald told him about his favorite poems, which made him feel a little awkward. No one guessed that the strong, silent war machine was secretly a poetry fanatic—but Tino didn't think it affected him. With every little detail about his life, Berwald grew hungry for more—he wanted to know everything about him. What made him happy, his fears, what made him cry. The more he discovered, the happier he was, and by the end of the week, Berwald was the happiest he'd ever been. Their moments in the arena and the lounge expanded to Selection, where they could catch a few minutes of discussion before the contenders were decided.

"Well, looks like someone's been social lately," Feliks taunted. He sat in the lounge, watching Tino face Kiku, a white-clad fighter who was chosen at random. He barely took notice to the blonde's words. _Give 'im a good kick in the side, _he urged, convincing himself that their training was worthwhile. If he wasn't imagining it, his stance and power had improved. "He's a lucky bastard, isn't he? He's about my height and he's chosen _way_ more than I am. It's totally unfair, if you ask me." His bubbly voice was filled with jealousy, yet Berwald still took no notice. Kiku's energy level fell as Tino jabbed him in the face repeatedly. "And he's only a level five fighter, but he gains skill _so_ much faster than I do." Berwald flinched as a katana swiped Tino's side. "Hey, are you even listening to me?"

"Mm." He wasn't, but he didn't want to seem rude. He also didn't want to talk about Tino's sudden success when Feliks's only victory happened when the game player's sister withdrawled from the fight. Tino threw punches like fire and the fight concluded. A glow of pride swelled within him as he retreated to the Selection Stage.

"_Tino Vainamoinen, level six reached!" _Tino cheered next to Berwald, his name rising on the leaderboard. Within a week, he had risen to the sixteenth rank. Many surrounding faces looked appauled. Others were blank, uncaring. Tino took no notice. He stood where he was supposed to and smiled widely. Berwald blushed. His face was round and friendly, but deceiving. He could beat weaker opponents in minutes . . . yet still appear completely adorable. Berwald could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the way it would before a battle. As two players were selected, Berwald watched Tino, who turned to him and laughed. It reminded him of children in the snow, ecstatic and free. He suddenly felt breathless; his chest felt constricted as Tino accidentally brushed against his arm. After a week of getting to know him, he still didn't know what this was. The desire to beat him? How ridiculous. The last thing Berwald wanted to do was hurt him. He wanted to wrap his muscular arms around Tino's waist and sniff his hair. Berwald laughed dryly. A week ago, he was isolated, and he was happy. _No, _he was well-off. Decent life, good status. He didn't know true happiness until Tino came. All he knew was violence.

Violence couldn't be the answer anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

"He's only been here nine days, and he's already ranked twelfth. The last time _I_ was ranked twelfth, there were twelve characters to choose from."

"When has a new character ever gotten this much attention? Okay, so Berwald rose up pretty quickly, and Mathias became a favorite for a while, but look at them! One's threatening, silent, and deadly-looking, and the other looks like a maniac with a huge axe! _Tino_ looks like a kid." The voice speaking spat the name with utter disgust, which sent blood flowing to Berwald's head. He was trying to walk home from what was supposed to be another session. When Tino was invited to drink with Alfred, Mathias, and Ivan, he explained apologetically and left Berwald to his own devices. He had released a few of his pent-up emotions, but now he was merely bored, and had no need to hang around the arena. Upon hearing hushed female voices, he hid behind the back door, which put him in the Selection Stage. He had a hard time figuring out who was who, as he never bothered to socialize. From what he could tell, the others were jealous. It happened.

"Half the characters look as strong as _him_ and half of them are out of use!" Her voice sounded French, though Berwald couldn't remember if any of the girls were from a French-speaking region. He only kept track of people if they stood a chance of beating him. The girls were never used.

"Whoever designed us should be fired. Obviously this isn't a world for girls. We're probably just here for fan service, not fighting."

"_Battle of Hetalia_: We'll pretend _you_ decide the destiny. Little do you know, the future is set." Berwald recognized the girl who spoke as Elizaveta Hedervary, who had the talent to whip every man in the game and no chance to prove it. She normally spent her time in bars, challenging brave fighters to duels, just to make sure everyone knew that she would not be mistaken for weak. He remembered the smack of her frying pan against his face; he never fought outside of the game after that. "I agree with all of you, as usual. And as usual, there's nothing we can do." Frustration filled her voice. Perplexed, Berwald continued to listen, starting to feel sympathy for them. Maybe he should learn their names.

"I want to know what Tino did," a colder voice piped up. Her tone was like a shard of ice. "How the hell did he manage it? Sure, he won his first battle. _I _won _my _first—and only—battle! Do I get a second chance? I get to spend my days begging to be chosen by the computer, so I can beat the stupid smile off his face!" Berwald winced. Terror consumed him; he wanted to burst through the door and rip her face off. He didn't know who said that about Tino, but surely he wouldn't mind destroying all of them, for speaking such horrible things. He couldn't do it, though. He was frozen, his legs were bound to the cement beneath his legs. Nothing good would come of revealing himself. His hands shook as he stared to the wide, gray ceiling above him, in a poor attempt to clear his mind. He needed to get away, forget what he had heard . . .

It was no secret that everyone was jealous of those who did well. If you lost your first fight, you never fought again. If you were good, you might get away with loosing once. Tino had come to him with an innocent dream—but the top of the ladder had a price. The higher you were, the higher you could fall. The people below you wanted to see failure, because it could be their opportunity. The reality of it suddenly became hard to accept, even though Berwald understood it by the end of day one.

He bolted out of the main building and ran down the sidewalk, the same one he took every night with Tino. His heart dropped in his chest. Should he tell him what the girls had said? Was it better for him to stay unaware, determined to fight to the top? His situation could only worsen from there. He ran faster, as if doing so could let his thoughts fly straight out of his head. _He's only been here nine days . . . ranked twelfth . . . so I can beat the stupid smile off his face! _

Berwald didn't know where he was going. He didn't want to see the city, alight with activity. He didn't want to go home; it was too quiet. He didn't want to be with Tino, because he could barely think straight as it was. Out of breath, Berwald slowed, and eventually stopped in an alleyway. He leaned against a dark wall and took slow, continuous breaths. Music blared across the street and he heard a familiar laugh—Tino's laugh. It was as cheerful as ever. Hearing it caused Berwald pain. Not knowing made him content. He did not want Tino to worry, not about something that couldn't be done. Enemies are made; people get over it. It's a part of life.

"B-Berwald!?" A long-haired boy of average height stopped shortly in front of the hulking Swede. "Oh, you scared me. Please, try not to stick around dark alleyways. You're scary enough as it is." It took Berwald a while to put a name to his face, but eventually Toris came to mind.

"Don't know where else to go," he shrugged, not knowing quite how to respond. "Need to think."

"Oh, really? I'm sure it's nothing." Berwald was slightly offended by Toris's dismissiveness. The glare he gave Toris informed the latter of this. He backed away, stammering something Berwald thought was an apology, but couldn't understand it.

_He's just like the rest of them. Jealous of Tino. He wants to cause Tino pain. He wants to hurt him. _

"Won't let Tino get hurt," he muttered, suddenly lost in thought. Had Toris not reacted, he never would have noticed that he said anything.

"What's Tino got to worry about? He's succeeded! He's miraculous, you know. He's beaten more than half of us, with a face like his!" He didn't understand where this was going. Toris was pretending, he had to be, he was actually plotting against him . . . "You better watch out, Berwald. Fourth rank could be his any day now." It was then Berwald realized that he hadn't thought about his own rank for a week. All of his thoughts had been on helping Tino, watching him fight, hearing him talk, watching him smile . . . who cared if he lost his rank to him? It would make Tino burst with happiness, and Berwald would get to see him smile wider than ever. When Tino smiled, the corners of his mouth tickled Berwald's stomach and tugged at his face, forcing him to smirk. He would have accepted Tino's offer to drinks, had it been just the two of them. It struck him by surprise, how little he cared for himself. Hadn't he always stood alone? Wasn't silence his savior? Didn't he dream of the day he'd defeat Alfred, and become the greatest fighter _Battle of Hetalia _had to offer?

Berwald felt a sharp poke in his side. He had forgotten that Toris was talking to him. "Are you okay? If you're seriously concerned, don't worry, he's not even in the top ten yet—"

"What's yer rank?" he asked Toris, who looked confused.

"My rank? Why do you care?" Berwald stared at him in silence. "Twenty-eight, if you really want to know. I'm actually quite good, when given the chance to level up. But Tino—does natural talent even exist? I thought we were all equal, just perceived to be stronger or better . . . I don't resent him for beating me. If anything, it's inspiring. It only goes to show that even if you're not heavily muscled or tall and menacing, you can still win. I'm just disappointed that nobody thinks that way." This took Berwald by surprise. Toris didn't care? Was he immune to the jealousy that consumed them all? What an amazing talent—to be able to admire those who sent you to humiliation. And why was he telling this to Berwald? "Sorry if what I'm saying makes no sense. I just needed somebody to talk to, that's all, and you're here, so I thought . . . well, I should be on my way now." Before Berwald could try to say anything, that he understood him, that he was glad to hear what he said, Toris scampered away, possibly to the tiny apartment room each fighter was granted. Maybe he should head home as well. The blaring music and flashing lights never stopped, but the sky grew progressively darker as the night progressed. Berwald could only feel the chill of the air on his face; his long, navy-blue overcoat and black gloves protected his skin. He had been through colder—had he? The memories of Sweden were still like echoes, but images of gleaming snow filled his mind. There was no place like the city in his head. This city was nicer, with places other than bars and clubs. There were places one could take a date to dinner. A park glistened in winter and shone vibrantly in summer; for a brief moment, he envisioned himself lying in the grass with Tino, ruffling his white-blonde hair lazily as the two of them stared at the clouds. His pulse quickened as he felt Tino's arm graze his—but he realized it was just the wind, pulling his shirt sleeve in close contact with his skin. He hadn't touched Tino much; he made sure his practice punches always stopped before they hit him. He never touched anyone softly, or tenderly. He never had the desire to do so. For the first time in his life, Berwald wanted to touch someone without hurting him. The need ached within him, almost like his entire body was sore with longing. If he pressed his body close to Tino's, maybe nobody would ever think of hurting him again. The thought was ridiculous but Berwald couldn't get rid of it. How would it feel to kiss him? His cheeks flushed pink as he reached his doorstep. He shrugged his coat off once he was inside his room, still with the image of Tino in his mind. No one could hurt him. He would never let them; no one would ever touch him. He wouldn't even let them look at him with malice in their eyes. Berwald still wasn't sure why he no longer cared about his rankings, or even his chance to prove himself great after his defeat. Tino appeared suddenly in his life, and as soon as he did, nothing else mattered. Berwald existed because he had a job to do, but at times it seemed like he existed to help Tino. And now, with jealousy hanging in the air like fog, his sole purpose was to protect him. As long as Berwald existed, hurting Tino would be out of the question.


	5. Chapter 5

His opponent's sword swiped the air almost delicately. It was razor-sharp, prepared to kill, but remarkable as it danced almost effortlessly. Because of it, Berwald barely had an opening. He dodged as the masked man struck what could have been his face, if he had not moved fast enough. Berwald grunted in frustration as he tried landing a kick to the Turkish fighter's side, but he spun elegantly and slashed Berwald's cheek. A bit of blood fell to the floor as he winced in pain. Berwald had no control over his movements; Davey had chosen him to fight at last. The fight was almost finished; his opponent's health was dangerously low. Berwald just needed a clear opening to finish him off—

His fist connected with Sadiq Annan's nose, sending him plummeting to the floor. He smirked slightly, satisfied with the contact. The tall, tan man looked worn-out and defeated, but he would regenerate shortly. Nobody was truly hurt in a fight.

"_Congratulations, Player One," _the woman's voice echoed. _"Player One, Computer Player, please return to the Selection Stage." _Sadiq stood up, energy restored, with a look of envy on his face. Berwald couldn't control his victory, and that was obvious to all, but he recognized the familiar jealousy that consumed his opponent.

It was better he despised him rather than Tino.

"Congratulations," Feliks greeted him, expression unreadable. His voice was as cheerful as usual, but Berwald couldn't tell if he was forcing it. He remembered his conversation with Toris last night and grew immediately suspicious of Feliks. _I'm just disappointed that nobody thinks that way. _He turned his gaze towards Tino, who beamed at him. Berwald's heart flipped and his stomach fluttered as Tino gave his arm a squeeze.

"You did great, Ber!" He didn't tell Tino that he had to summon his fighting spirit by imagining him in pain.

"Mm," he offered, trying to take his eyes away from Tino's. Berwald moved his gaze towards the leaderboard. His score increased, but his rank remained the same. It didn't bother him the slightest.

"I've never seen you fight before, so I was amazed! You're so powerful!" Berwald opened his mouth to disagree, to insist that it wasn't him, but the familiar sound of _"Character Select—please await selection"_ cut him off. He stared ahead, trying to force the butterflies out of his stomach to no avail.

"_Player One—Berwald Oxensteirna. Berwald Oxensteirna, please step forward." _Mildly surprised, Berwald moved from his place and made his usual introduction. Who would he face this time? Who would envy him if he won, or take away his pride if he lost? He suddenly wished somebody had taken his place.

"_Computer Player—Tino Vainamoinen. Tino Vainamoinen, please step forward." _Berwald would have screamed if he could. Tino stepped forward, energetic and determined, which, under different circumstances, would have made Berwald's heart leap. It was as if he had been hit by a wall of bricks. He was suffocating; his lungs lost more air with every breath. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. Berwald refused to believe it, though he was being ushered towards the arena's entrance. Automatically he walked to the arena, the arena where he and Tino shared most of their moments together. Where Tino had asked him what he liked about fighting. As he gave his second introduction, the truth hit him—he liked nothing about fighting. How could he, when he was about to hurt the very person he promised to protect? In a matter of seconds, fighting lost all its appeal. There was no glory in hurting anyone. Where was the fun in beating someone until they couldn't move? Tino stared at him, his eyes gleaming with worry. _Don't look at me, _he begged, unable to control himself whenever Tino watched him. He couldn't hurt him, but he had no choice.

_"Round One—Decide the Destiny." _Berwald felt sick. The round had started, and he never had the option of backing out. He didn't care if refusing to fight made him weak. Tino advanced on him, looking apprehensive, but as long as the game was on, no evasive moves could be made.

Berwald's arms moved by themselves. He winced as one fist slammed against Tino's face; he shivered as his leg kicked his side. Tino dodged many of his moves, but Berwald was forced to advance on him, forced to crack his bones and knock the wind out of him. What was he doing to the face he wanted to caress? He winced as Tino's signature attack struck his stomach. The blow went deeper than his skin. _He has no choice, _he reminded himself, begging silently for the battle's end. He didn't want to win this. Winning would mean that Tino was lying on the floor, unconscious, because of Berwald. The suffocating feeling returned to his chest as he sent a nasty blow to Tino's neck. The outsider was overflowing with ecstasy. Berwald wanted to die. He sent a particularly painful jab at Tino's face, which to Berwald's relief, he avoided. If only he could fall asleep, and dream he wasn't doing this.

He didn't know how long it lasted. Too long, for his tastes—every blow left him empty. His head was screaming and his insides were aching. Finally, he finished it—involuntarily—and Tino was lying on the floor, broken, defeated. He was the one to break Tino's streak. He would have never dreamed it. Tears formed in his eyes, but he blinked them back, used to suppressing all emotion. Emotion was weakness, though his pain didn't stop him from winning. Though Berwald was the victor, he felt just as defeated as the man lying on the ground in front of him. Instantly, both Tino and Berwald's health was restored; Tino stood up and offered Berwald his hand.

"Good game," he cheered, but Berwald didn't take his hand. That hand had punched him. His hand had hit Tino's face. Berwald's heart pounded as he stared at Tino sadly. He was a dirty traitor, a filthy liar—he deserved to die. He wanted to die. "Berwald?" Berwald forced his eyes away and walked towards the arena's exit.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Berwald, don't do it!" the protests were useless. His elbow slammed into Tino's nose; those beautiful violet eyes blinked red-stained tears. Blades replaced his arms and legs. They seared through Tino's pale skin, covering the floor with his blood. "Berwald . . . no . . . I can't continue . . ." Berwald stood over the smaller man and stared down at him. His arms and legs were slashed, his clothes were stained, and his face was mauled. But he was beautiful . . . his eyes pleaded for mercy. _No_, Berwald thought, sinking down to his knees. He reached out his hand to stroke Tino's wrecked cheek, but an icy voice stopped him. _

_ "Destroy him," she whispered. Tino's eyes were closing, the purple was glazing over, he arms fell limp at his side . . . "Do what you're told, damn it! There's nothing you can do!" Tino fell over, blood oozing out of his heart. "End it, Berwald." _

_ "Ber . . . what have you done?" _

_ "Kill him." His head pounded, his heart raced . . . "DO IT NOW! IT'S QUICKER THIS WAY! HE WILL SUFFER NO MORE!" _

Berwald woke with adrenaline pumping through his veins. Tino . . . oh God, Tino, he was dying at Berwald's hands, his blood was leaving him, he was hurt, he was damaged—

Berwald had no blade. He couldn't have slashed Tino to death. His shirt was soaked in sweat and his short, blonde hair clung to his forehead. The heat of the room was intense, so he opened his window. He paused in front of it, allowing the cool air to calm him, as it usually did. The city during daytime was an unusual sight, as he normally spent the day in the arena, fighting for his job. His heart dropped as he realized that work never ended. Even with nightmares of killing the one he loved, he was forced into the daily grind day after day, fighting for no purpose at all. Frustration consumed him, but there was nothing he could do. Just as he had been in the arena and his dream, he was powerless.

When he arrived at work, the Selection Stage was filled with murmurs and chatter, optimistic hopes of winning, and threats that were semi-friendly, semi-serious. Though conversation and sound surrounded him, he took his place quietly, automatically, unwillingly. His arm brushed Tino's and the terror of his dream consumed him. The touch burned him, but he was more concerned for Tino's welfare. It was as if anything could break him, even his trainer, even someone who would give anything to hold him.

Tino met Berwald's ocean-blue eyes; they were filled with concern. Berwald tried to look away before they glazed over, before they became lifeless. Before they lost the battle.

"I'm not mad at you or anything," Tino blurted out. Berwald was momentarily confused. "About yesterday. You kinda walked away without talking to me, and I thought you were ignoring me but I didn't know why, and I didn't know if you were mad at me, so if it makes you feel better, I'm not mad at you . . . you know, I don't know what I'm saying anymore—Berwald?"

He couldn't say anything to Tino. The words were stuck in his throat. Images of his blood resurfaced, dragging Berwald into silent panic. Selection was going to be painful today. He didn't want to hurt Tino ever again. He never wanted to hurt Tino in the first place.

"Berwald—if it makes you feel better, you're now ranked third! I didn't know if beating me would boost you up or not, but look at you! You're almost number one!" He gestured to the board, where Berwald's sullen face replaced the stern profile of Ludwig Beilschmidt, who rested below him. The thought did nothing to comfort him. _Beating Tino. _He beat him. He sent him to the floor, unconscious. The world began to spin as he closed his eyes. The room still harbored conflicting conversations, but a ringing silence filled Berwald's ears. Third-best. More battles, more enemies, more pain. Weeks ago, he would've given anything to move up. Berwald laughed dryly, humorlessly. He'd lived for so long, with such frivolous, stupid desires. Was this change for the better or worse? Perhaps ranks and opponents were the only motives that mattered in the world he lived in. It was unfortunate that he had learned to love.

_"Battle of Hetalia online. We are now online. Please assume default positions and await further instruction." _A dozen mouths shut simultaneously. The gray room let sunlight enter through two large windows. Berwald watched dust float in the light, in a feeble attempt to distract his mind. He thought of how close he stood next to Tino, about how easily he could snap his neck.

_"Player One—" _That voice haunted his dreams. The cold, unfeeling female computer tone; Berwald suddenly felt sick. _"Berwald Oxenstierna. Berwald Oxenstierna, please step forward." No, _he thought, but his legs moved forward automatically. His stomach became queasy as he begged for Tino to be spared.

_"Computer Player—" _Not Tino. _"Alfred F. Jones. Alfred F. Jones, please step forward." _Berwald was temporarily relieved. It wasn't until he smiled that he realized that this cocky, energetic man had welcomed Tino, had invited him out, had made him feel like he belonged. He already wrecked Tino. He would not destroy his friend.

"Ready for ass-kickery, Strong and Silent?" Alfred laughed weakly, when Berwald didn't respond. "Well, you're called Strong and Silent because you're strong and—"

"Oh my God, just _go_!" a girl's voice complained. Berwald's legs moved robotically towards the arena, unprepared once again. Once, Alfred humiliated him. He forgot what was so embarrassing about loosing. If there was nothing honorable about winning, loosing couldn't be too bad.

Alfred made the first move. His punch was so forceful that Berwald staggered back, blood dripping from his face. A couple more hits like that, and the fight would end. Berwald felt himself thrust forward, leaning into an attack. The outsider knew what he was doing; his attack caused Alfred to loose his balance, leaving Berwald open to throw a combo punch and . . . knock him out. But he wouldn't win. He refused to win, not after Tino. Berwald didn't know what he was doing. His fists were right in front of him, ready to attack. Though his arms felt like lead, he pulled them back, away from his opponent. Alfred's eyes widened as he regained his balance. The American fighter shook his head and continued his onslaught of attacks.

The outsider cursed from beyond a screen, which projected him into the arena's "audience" of repeating segments of people. Berwald was ordered to throw more punches, but each missed Alfred miserably; in a few short seconds, Alfred's impossible combo attack sent Berwald to the floor, head blank and body throbbing. After it was over, Berwald stood up and walked back to Selection, greeted by the stares of everyone; some were horrified, some mesmerized, some unfathomable.

"What the hell was that?" Alfred whispered, his usual carefree tone replaced with anger. Berwald shrugged. Whatever he had done, he was proud of it. Now, nobody would ever fall at his hands.


	7. Chapter 7

The outsider was pulled away from his game, which ended the day shortly after Berwald's defeat. Nobody was used to walking towards the city in daylight, but staying at the arena was pointless for Berwald. He tried to turn away from the crowd, but he felt his arm being tugged. When he turned around he saw Tino pulling on his coat sleeve. His cheeks were bright red; his breath was audible.

"Berwald . . ." his voice was airy, exhausted. Berwald didn't realize how fast he had left, or that Tino was even following him. Tino tried to speak, but he stared into Berwald's eyes, bewildered. Uncomfortable, Berwald frowned and stared at the ground. He wasn't worthy of Tino's presence, not yet. He had to fix what he had hurt.

"'M sorry," Berwald muttered, almost inaudibly. He'd have to speak more clearly if he was to ask for forgiveness. By the looks of it, Tino didn't hear him.

"Berwald, what is with you today? You hardly look at me, and when you do, you seem really sad—and your fight! It looks like you didn't even try! Berwald, I know you're better than this, you were so great yesterday . . ." Berwald's anger blocked Tino's soft words of reassurance. How was he great yesterday? Berwald scoffed, turning away from the shorter man. Tino was just like the others; feelings were meaningless and insignificant, as long as the battle was victorious. He was brainwashed into thinking that fighting was the greatest thing in the universe, the solution to all problems, the cause for all concern. An emotional force slammed into Berwald as if he had just crashed into a brick wall. Everything inside him sank, opening a pit in his chest. If Tino's world was war, how could he know how to love? As long as he lived, he would only know anger, jealousy, happiness—but a sick form of it. Happiness came from victory, not Berwald. Berwald ached, his sunken heart was throbbing with longing, longing that could never be fulfilled. In despracy, he ran a hand through Tino's hair; it felt like lush summer grass, it smelt like pine. Tino backed away apprehensively, which served as Berwald's cue to distance himself. He would never know how Berwald felt, so he decided it was best to keep his feelings secret.

"'M sorry," Berwald repeated, though he no longer knew what he was referring to. "About ev'rything." Tino did not know what to say. An awkward silence emerged between them. Tino fixed his bangs nervously as Berwald stared, aching to smile, aching to wrap his arms around the Finnish fighter. This was something Berwald couldn't fight for. He could only spend an eternity fighting with himself, fighting with his affections. He was designed to fight—he was supposed to stay like the others. His purpose in life was supposed to stay as winning. Berwald had no idea how he had strayed so far from his purpose.

"I'm leaving, Berwald. I'll see you later." Tino walked away without a second glance. Berwald's insides stirred, uncomfortable with Tino gone. Why did his existence revolve around him? Berwald walked slowly down the sidewalk, staring at the ground. Memories of his fight with Alfred returned to him. He thought of his quick defeat, his lead-like arms, and his stubbornness that refused to hurt anyone. Earlier, he had thought he was doing Alfred good. Suddenly, the situation struck him as odd. It was against nature to defy orders when selected as the player character. Berwald's eyes widened, his pace quickened. The towering man felt as if he'd made a very grave mistake. It would be miraculous if there were no consequences for what he'd done. He didn't even know how he did it, it was an accident—but if it was an accident, why was he pleased with the outcome of it? Why had he felt like he knew exactly what he was doing?

He was halfway to his apartment when he heard voices. Berwald's mind was preoccupied enough as it was, so he urged his legs to continue on.

"I have no interest, Raivis. I can't stress this enough." _Keep walking, _Berwald urged, though he recognized the voice as Toris.

"You can't possibly be satisfied, Toris. You know how great you are . . ."

"I fought three times, Raivis. I lost twice. I know I can do more, but my chance is gone. We all just have to accept that—"

"_I've never had a chance! _I've never once been picked, not even after I've been unlocked! There are _girls_ who've been picked instead of me, and it's all because of that biased jerk that controls the fights! But Toris, we can make it change! If we band together, we can create new opportunities!"

"We are powerless! Have you gone insane—"

"Were you even watching today? Alfred vs. Berwald? That was not a normal fight, Toris. Berwald defied direct orders; so can we, it's possible—"

"I said I want nothing to do with it." Berwald didn't plan on eavesdropping. Immediately he ran the rest of the way home, not wanting to hear any more. Because of his selfish actions, fifteen-year-old Raivis Galante was up to something ridiculous, by the sound of it. His thoughts scrambled; snippets of earlier conversations he'd had filled his mind, echoed throughout his head: _"Berwald defied direct orders; so can we . . ." "I don't resent him . . . I'm just disappointed that no one else thinks that way . . ." "We'll pretend you decide the destiny. Little do you know, your future is set . . ." "At least the player dude actually picks you . . ." "I agree with all of you, as usual. And as usual, there's nothing we can do . . ." _

_"Enough already!" _Berwald yelled, window wide open. His fist slammed against the white wall, leaving a tennis-ball sized hole. His thoughts bounced around in his head, tormenting him, punishing him. For the first time in a long week, he allowed instinct to take over. Filled with aggression, he hit his wall, denting it and deforming it. The wall had no feelings. There was nothing wrong with hurting it. He punched harder as his knuckles burned. He didn't like what he heard from the minorities. Such idiocy . . . but he couldn't blame them, not when they never had the chance to do what they were designed to. Why hadn't he thought this through? By his defiant act, he had provided a spark . . . they were going to take things too far. Raivis sounded possessed with the idea. And with the discontent of the girls, he could easily gain support . . . and there were others in his position, so many others . . . what had he done it for? This morning, he thought he had done it for Tino. All he did was make Tino worry about him. Berwald dug his fist deep into the plaster. He had done enough for Tino with training him—but the pain he caused him could never been forgiven. In the time that he had come to live for Tino, he had brought destruction upon himself. If he had his way, he would die—but death, like defiance, was near impossible . . . no, he couldn't try. He could not leave his game; it was always clear that the players were stuck to their fate. He had lost the ability to hurt people. Tino would never love him in return. Would he be haunted by what he had become for eternity? How much problems would he cause, just by knowing how to _feel_? He wasn't alive until he met Tino . . . but somehow life became worse than his state of incompletion. He stopped to catch his breath as he examined the wall. The smell of paint and dust filled the room. On the patch he had damaged, a large hole crumbled, surrounded by smaller holes and cracked segments. It mirrored his thoughts, his disarray. If he continued with this, the entire wall would fall down.

How many people would become hurt after what he had done? If some of the others defied, the game would appear glitched, and then . . . Berwald stood up straight and turned away from the wall. He could do what he wanted with himself, but he would not destroy the lives of everyone else. He would not destroy the game through his selfishness. If defiance became an option . . . Berwald would do anything in his power to save the very game that led him into inescapable despair.


	8. Chapter 8

Berwald sprinted towards the arena without a second thought. With luck, private groups would be meeting there, to train much like he and Tino did. If his hunch that rebellion was being planned was correct, he needed more information. He was panting by the time he reached the concrete building. After he slowed his heart rate, he entered silently, shadow-like. The main door led to the Selection Stage, which was deserted. Berwald wasn't surprised. It was still day outside, but the room looked lifeless. The leaderboard was blank, as well as metal plates where the characters stood. He shifted his focus to the door that led to the arena. Silently he walked to the door and pressed his ear against the wall, but no voices could be heard. Disappointment deflated his hopes of finding more information. How could he have expected to find answers just by bursting into the arena? He had no plan, and only snippets of overheard conversations to go off of. A meeting place would be secret, and being so high up in the rankings, he didn't think that he would be entitled to private information.

He left the arena, disappointment overflowing within him. All he knew was that he needed this cycle of jealousy to stop. He didn't know where potential rebels were or how to talk to them. The thought of presenting a well-spoken, convincing argument against action intimidated him. He stared for a while at the Selection Stage room, which caused pain for so many. Berwald grew angry; this room was the cause of his problems, the reason the world was in this mess in the first place. Its gray walls were cold, unwelcoming, unbreakable. Nothing could be worse than the black screen in the center, projecting the fact that only a handful of the players could be great. It corrupted, it hurt—Berwald was pained too much to stay. Tearing his gaze away from the screen, he walked towards the exit, unsure of what to do. The _click_ of the door stopped him; a head of soft, white-blonde hair and violet eyes peered around, checking for others. Berwald felt his heart fall out of his chest. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment.

"'M leaving," he said, his voice scratchy and forced. He didn't want to talk. He needed to listen. Tino closed the door behind him as he entered. He leaned against it, blocking Berwald's path. "I said 'm—"

"I need you to tell me what happened this morning. When you fought, your accuracy flew out the window—you acted like a level one fighter, Berwald! And you won't believe the things I've been hearing! People claim that you _deliberately_ messed with the controls! I know you, Berwald, and you'd never do that—"

"I did." Tino's expression was synonymous with the face of someone who had been hit by a pile of bricks.

"You _what_!? But—but _why_?" Berwald was desperate to leave. Tino wouldn't understand, so there was no point in trying to explain. Additionally, he was growing sick of the aching feeling that filled his stomach every time he caught Tino's eyes.

"Don't want to fight." He tried to look away, but Tino rushed towards him, coming far too close for Berwald's liking.

"That's ridiculous, it's your _job_!" He spoke like a nagging wife. It would have been quite amusing if Berwald wasn't so distressed.

"I can't." How was he supposed to explain it? "Doubt myself. Everything I've ever known, 's changed." He hoped this was good enough for the concerned fighter. Tino bit his lip, unsure of what to make of this. His features were so delicate-looking, but the man inside was so intense, so fierce—was that his trick? Appear innocent, and then rip the opponent to shreds? It was ironic, as it seemed to have worked on Berwald. Unknowingly, Tino had caused him so much strife. He couldn't take much more of it, but he couldn't bring himself to walk away. In the silence, Tino fidgeted with his fingers, which attracted Berwald's attention. He was adorable without trying. He was intense without having to be. He was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to Berwald.

"I don't understand," he said airily. Berwald nodded thoughtfully.

"Didn't think you would."

"I want to understand, Berwald. When we trained together, I felt . . . I felt like I knew you more than anyone else. I'm not so sure, anymore." Every fiber of his being burned for Tino to understand. Though he couldn't, he needed to try. He had to know how Berwald felt about him, why he's been so changed. And maybe, if there was the slightest chance that he did understand, Tino could help him sort out the looming thoughts of disaster.

"I . . ." Berwald started to speak, but he didn't know where to begin. His chest felt far too light, and beads of sweat emerged on his forehead. "I though m' life was all about fightin'. Then I met you, and . . ." He wasn't used to talking this much, even around Tino. "Lost my head, I guess. Didn't want to fight you, when it happened. Thought I hurt you—"

"—We regenerate, Berwald. That's ridiculous!"

"Didn't care. Was punching you in the face, against m' will. Hurting you . . . 's what hurt me the most. Couldn't continue . . ." He searched for words, but he didn't know what else to add. Was he even making sense? "Don't want to fight." Tino looked bewildered, listening to the sound of Berwald's voice. Berwald knew he sounded uncertain and lost, the same way he felt. A part of him felt a tiny sense of relief, but his troubles were far from over. His suspicions still ran high. He still had no will to fight. His heart still raced whenever he looked at Tino. At least his thoughts were relatively free.

"You really can't bring yourself to fight anymore?" Berwald nodded. Tino stared at the ground, lost in thought. "So you defied the rules instead . . . Berwald, what have you done? What will become of you, if you can't fight?"

"I'll be useless, like the others. You can take m' place."

"Ber_wald_," he sighed, shaking his head. "Why have you changed so much?"

Berwald looked Tino directly in the eyes as his stomach fluttered. Slowly, he ran one large hand through Tino's hair and brushed his pale cheek with the other. "Tino . . . I love you." The shorter man's cheeks turned bright pink as he tore away from Berwald's gaze. His heart sunk, knowing that this may have not been the best thing to say. "Don't want to hurt you."

"I wasn't keen on hurting you, either," Tino admitted, still avoiding Berwald's stare. "We do what we have to do. Sometimes, our job is harder than accepting defeat, or never earning the chance to prove yourself, but we go through with it, knowing it's all just entertainment. You shouldn't worry so much about hurting people—"

"Nothing's entertaining 'bout hurting people." He stared apprehensively at Tino, his heart hammering as he wondered if he'll get an answer to his confession. Tino shrugged.

"You shouldn't reflect on pain too much. It will only hurt more. Physical pain doesn't last. You'll drive yourself insane for all eternity thinking about fighting." He had a point, but Berwald remained unconvinced. He couldn't bear to imagine fighting Tino again. He had to become useless.

"Changed too much. No turning back." At this point, Tino grabbed Berwald's arms, leaving him frozen in place. Those eyes burned and his legs became lead.

"Berwald, listen to me! You're going to kill yourself with thoughts like that! You may be tempted to do very, _very_ stupid things, and I don't want to see you stoop that low! I don't know how to fix this, but you need to get your fighting spirit back! In all honesty, I've always admired that about you . . ." Tino's blush darkened. "Um, well . . . you helped me get so far in such a short amount of time! I may have won my first battle due to luck, but the force that drove me higher was knowing that when the game master put down the controller, you would smile a little, and tell me how proud you were!" He seemed panicked and lost, on the verge of loosing his mind. "You inspired me, Berwald. Seeing you like _this_ . . . it hurts me." Tino lifted his hands from Berwald's arms, leaving him a little colder. Slowly, his arms reached around Tino's waist and pulled him closer to his navy blue jacket. The height difference between them was significant, but that didn't matter. Berwald rested his head on Tino's narrow shoulder. He smelled of pine and sweat, a familiar scent that Berwald yearned for constantly. Finally, his arms weren't scarring him. He held Tino close to his heart, as if it offered some divine protection from harm. It was as if Tino's presence melted the pain away, though ultimately the Finnish fighter was the cause of it. None of his problems mattered; he was holding Tino, and Tino's hand squeezed his sides, and his head leaned into his chest. Everything was perfect—the impossible became reality for Berwald. He pressed his lips to Tino's ear, making the shorter shudder.

"Love you." He left Tino's shoulder and kissed his hair, breathing in more of the scent of pine.

"I think I love you too, Ber." His heart started sprinting again; though his chest was light, it was joyously so. Tino loved him too, and the battles they fought didn't matter, because in the end, they would always reenter the Selection Stage, unharmed by the other's blows. Berwald felt whole, complete, _happy_—for a moment, he could forget all the negative thoughts that plagued him. When Tino was in his arms, sighing at his every touch, all the bad in the world couldn't reach him.

Their fingers brushed as they walked to town, the sun now setting in the sky. They must have clung to each other for hours, each reassuring the other that everything was all right. Now, they walked in casual silence, admiring the orange and pink hues of the sky. Berwald couldn't control his facial expressions. Tino giggled several times; when Berwald asked what was funny, they stopped as he explained:

"Berwald, you're _smiling_." Berwald's face would grow hot as he looked away. "No, keep doing it, it's cute."

"'M not a cute person," Berwald insisted, still smiling, still trying to hide his face.

"You're adorable, Ber," Tino insisted, arm brushing arm. "Come on, let's head to Knockout. You won't believe the bets Francis and Arthur have going on . . ."

Slowly, the town came into view, city lights glowing softly. Tino rambled about the recent bar fights, which mostly involved the underrated fighters Berwald was worried about. The information Tino had was unsettling, but he nodded, encouraging him to continue. After a series of discussions on which player can become the most hilariously drunk, they came to an abrupt halt. Many fighters crowded around the popular bar, talking boisterously and angrily. Berwald couldn't understand what was happening through the noise, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the door. Once he got a closer look, he found the metal door had been marked by a blade, presumably Mathias Kohler's axe, which rested near the invincible door.

"What's going on?" Tino asked Gilbert Beilschmidt, a red-eyed, white-haired fighter who was probably the most conceited man Berwald knew. Gilbert turned around after Tino poked him in the back. "What's happened?"

"The doors won't open," he replied in his thick German accent. "All the bars in town are closed—no one knows why. We think it's the girls—none of them are here—but other people are missing, too, take a look."


	9. Chapter 9

Berwald scanned the crowd and noticed that the people locked out consisted of the top twenty fighters. He spotted Toris explaining something to Ivan, who nodded occasionally. What troubled Berwald was that Ivan seemed concerned, which was rare. He couldn't hear their conversation, but he could only guess what they spoke of.

"Have you seen Lovino?" a panicked, lyrical voice came from behind him. Berwald, Tino, and a couple of others found Feliciano Vargas running around, scanning the crowd. "I think I lost him . . . I can't find him anywhere, and I'm really concerned, and I can't find a lot of other people, too . . ."

"Where is Lilli?" a voice bellowed from the center of the crowd. "If I find out that she's been . . . well, I'm going to make the person at fault wish they were never developed!" Vash Zwingli pushed his way through the crowd, searching for victims for his anger. "Oxenstierna, Vainamoinen, I haven't seen you today. Are you sure you have nothing to do with—with _this_!?" He screamed the last part of the sentence in Berwald's face. "I will ruin you, Oxenstierna! Mark my words—"

"Didn't do it," he replied. "No idea what's happening."

"Ludwig, do you know where Lovino is?" Feliciano asked desperately. The blonde warrior shook his head. "Toris, do you know—"

"I don't know where your brother is, Feli. No one knows."

"Toris thinks they've all disappeared together," Ivan announced. "He suggests that they formed a secret society of some sort."

"Bullshit!" Vash shouted. "Lilli would never join some 'secret society'; I forbid it!"

"Vash, Lilli's been running off with Eliza and the other girls for a month! Everyone's grown restless; I think they're striving for changes—"

"That was for practice!" Vash protested, storming over to where Toris stood. "You really think I'd let her—"

"She's not a little girl! You are no more in charge of her than I am!" In response, Vash grabbed Toris's shirt and pulled him close to him.

"_I—AM—HER—BROTHER!_" he threw Toris to the floor. "_I WILL PROTECT HER WITH MY LIFE, AND I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!_" Berwald winced at his shouts, pulling Tino closer to him.

"Now that you think about it, everyone who we can't find has been growing restless for some time, huh?" Berwald nodded. His theory seemed to have been confirmed by the panic.

"Yeah, they've just been pissed that you're cooler than them, Tino," Gilbert claimed. "The last time I spoke to Elizaveta, she looked like she wanted to kill me, all because I said you were the best goddamn Scandanavian fighter unit this place's ever seen."

"You really think I'm the best—"

"Alright everyone, we need to calm down! I know everyone's upset—I am, too, I can't find Matt anywhere—but what we need to do is—CALM DOWN, VASH, I'LL DEAL WITH THIS!" Alfred had pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Conversation still buzzed through the air, but about half of the crowd turned their attention towards the top fighter. "What we need is a search party, and a confirmed list of those in need of searching!"

"Lilli!"

"Elizaveta!"

"Lovino!"

"Natalia!"

"Raivis!"

"Lilli!"

"Roderich!"

"Eduard!"

"Feliks!"

"_Lilli_!"

"ONE AT A TIME, DON'T JUST SHOUT AT ME! And goddamn it, Vash, I know your sister's not here!"

In a semi-organized manner, the group managed to figure out who had disappeared. Arthur proposed that the said group might also have been the people that barricaded the doors. Many agreed, even Francis, whose purpose in life was to disagree with Arthur about everything. In the panic of the moment, he must've forgotten.

"What I want to know is why the doors are barricaded in the first place," Yao Wang, who was notorious for fighting with a wok instead of a traditional weapon, wondered. "They would only be locked if there was a purpose to locking them."

"Because they're inside, _plotting against us_!" Gilbert cried hysterically. "But as you can see, we obviously can't break down the door!"

"Clearly, these doors weren't intended to be broken," Yao added. "They must be locked from the inside, as well."

"So, these doors are programmed to stay standing, even when Mathias hits it for all eternity?" Gilbert asked. Yao nodded.

"Very clever of them, yes, perfect place to stage a rebellion. Internally locked indestructible doors." Berwald's eyes shifted to Tino. His large eyes widened, struck with thought.

"These doors may be designed to be indestructible," Tino began. "But fighters are designed to obey their every order . . ." Tino's gaze fell on Berwald, which led Gilbert and Yao to stare as well. The eye contact felt uncomfortable, but Tino was on to something. If he could break the rules once, could he break them again?

"Berwald," Tino whispered. Berwald nodded, clear of what he implied. He nudged a couple of people out of his way in pursuit of the door. Slowly, everyone surrounding him went silent. Their eyes locked onto his towering figure. He said nothing; his own blue eyes were fixed on the doors ahead of him. Tino eyed him anxiously, curiously. If Tino's prediction was right, the crowd could discover why they had been denied access, and where the others were.

Berwald's hand jostled the metal handle, to no avail. Disappointment inundulated him. He tried again, but the doors refused to budge. Three more grunt-filled pulls told him the doors weren't opening any time soon. How had he done it in battle? The tried to remember; his heavy arms flailed past Alfred, his mind stubbornly refused to hurt anyone, all because of Tino.

_Tino. _Images he tried to block flooded back to him; he was hurt, he was bruised, he was lying unconscious on the arena floor. It was dark and he bleed; his blood was crimson and smelled of pain . . .

He pulled the door again. No such luck. His heart shattered. There was a problem he needed to fix, yet he couldn't find a way to fix it. In his mind, Tino rested in a pool of blood, slashed mercilessly—_No. _His grasp on the door handle tightened in one last, desperate attempt. The door wanted to remain locked, but Berwald grew fervid. _I cannot hurt anyone, so I don't. I need the door to open, so it opens. _

With a click, the mass of blue steel swung open, revealing a completely empty bar.


	10. Chapter 10

"Nothing there," Berwald reported. The silent crowd murmured; quickly, it became the disorganized clamor it was moments before. The fighters began to push each other inside, trying to find a clear view. Berwald stood in the doorway with Tino, neither wanting to be trampled.

"What the hell?" Ludwig cried, stern face contorting with rage. "There's nothing here!"

"What was the point of locking it?" Yao wondered. Vash fought his way to the front of the room, incensed by the sight of the empty barstools and vacant boxing rings.

"We went through all this trouble to find nothing? Where the hell is my sister? I am not drinking, sleeping, or fighting until Lilli Zwingli is found!"

Tino turned to Berwald.

"Mm?" Berwald asked, hyper-aware of those violet eyes. In the panic of the evening, it was easy to forget that he had held Tino in his arms. His cheeks burned as Tino observed him thoughtfully.

"You're unusual, Berwald." He said this vaguely, yet Berwald knew exactly what he was talking about. He hadn't meant to be different. He hadn't meant to fall in love, either, but he was no stranger to situations he couldn't control. "It's not a bad thing!" Tino reassured him, suddenly very panicked. Berwald found this adorable, but now was not the time to think about his affections. Wordlessly, he grabbed Tino and sat him on his broad shoulders; Tino gave a squeak of surprise but accepted the nice view of Alfred, who stood on the bar counter.

"Well guys, I really thought that would've gone better. I mean, sure there are about five other locked bars we haven't checked—"

"Then check them!" Vash interrupted, anxiety replacing the impatience in his voice. Alfred glared at him.

"Nobody goes to those! That's why we checked _here_!"

"If nobody uses the other bars, then they would've hid there!"

"Why are they even hiding?" a quiet, innocent voice rose from the crowd. Feliciano raised his hand, like a schoolboy. "Why don't they want us to find them?"

"Feliciano, that's just another thing to add to the list of things we don't know." Just then, Toris scampered awkwardly onto the countertop and joined Alfred.

"I think I know," Toris announced. Even Vash's arguments faded from his lips. "In case you didn't notice, most of us are ranked at the top."

"You're not," Gilbert scoffed. "You're about as good as Feliciano."

"Oh please, we are not playing 'see-how-many-people-in-the-room-I-can-insult-at-once'." Gilbert promptly stopped laughing at his own, humorless joke. "Do any of you know what it's like to be at the bottom?" The room was eerily silent. Everyone had started in last, but everyone standing in the room except Toris and Feliciano had quickly increased his rank. "In the bottom, no one takes you seriously. No one ever earns a chance to prove his or herself. There are circumstances we can't control, like when we're Player One, or the gamer's rampant sexism. I have a very vague idea of what's going on with the missing people."

"Revolution!" Francis called, pumping his fist into the air. Toris shook his head.

"What would revolution do? You guys aren't oppressing them. Fighting us would be useless. Their aims are higher, less possible . . . and extremely dangerous." Toris paused to think, possibly of how to speak Berwald's thoughts. _Berwald defied direct orders, so can we . . . _"They are contemplating how to alter the game in a way that would force them to battle." The silence fell and everyone began to talk at once. Toris waved his arms, trying to restore order, but it was useless. Alfred tried yelling a couple times, but it only added to the volume. Berwald's head began to ache; he hated crowds for good reason.

"LISTEN UP, PEOPLE! THIS IS SERIOUS! SE-RI-OUS! TORIS HAS MORE TO SAY, GUYS!" Along with some ungodly stomping, the attention of the room shifted back to Alfred and Toris.

"Thank you, Alfred. Now, I know you're all worried, but keep in mind that we don't even know if their aims are even reachable!"

"We didn't know if those doors could open until Berwald opened them!" Mathias cried. "Not to mention, he downright _refused_ to fight!" Berwald felt sick; every pair of eyes in the room fell onto him. He hated people, he never knew how to act around them in a way that didn't involve punching them in the face. Now, he was the sole reason why the world was screwed.

"Didn't mean to," he stammered, his voice growing quieter with each word. "Kind of happened."

"So you just so 'happened' to put dangerous ideas in people's heads! Did you just so 'happen' to destroy the world?" Berwald tried to protest, but found himself unable to speak.

"Hey guys, that's not fair," Tino said, but nobody seemed to have heard him.

"We are all going to die!" Francis cried melodramatically. Arthur didn't bother to shut him up.  
"Berwald is dying first!" Vash insisted. A few angry cries followed. Berwald tried to stare at his shoes, but this move was met with opposition.

"Tino," he murmured. "Help me." But the crowd did not listen to whatever Tino was trying to tell them. Their protests collided with each other, but all of them were cruel, threating, and aimed at Berwald. His entire body felt weighed down. He'd realized he'd messed up from the moment Raivis mentioned his name in that alleyway, but now, the consequences were ringing in his ears, accusing him, punishing him. _Stop it, _he insisted, sick of the noise. But this anger wasn't a locked door or a forced fight. This anger would never go away.

"What happens when those traitors try to follow your example? This game will go down, and we'll never fight again!"

"We'll be unemployed, and it's all because of you!"

"How stupid to you have to be?"

"What the hell even happened to you?" Everyone accused him at least once, except for Tino or Toris, but he knew both of them thought that way. Tino's counterarguments were weak, defenseless—and not well-thought of. And poor Toris—betraying his friends because of their differences, because he proved that the impossible could happen. He did not know him well, but his heart still ached when he thought about him, telling the mob of the runaway's plans. How hard was it for him? Self-loathing returned, and all Berwald could feel was hatred. If he could shout with everyone else, he would. Trouble is, he'd be shouting at a brick wall—he knew what he did wrong, what could become of it. What he needed was a solution.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Arthur almost spit in his face as he spoke.

"Berwald Oxenstierna, Swedish fighter." That was all he could say. It was barely audible. Arthur examined him skeptically, his emerald green eyes calculating.

"Swedish fighter my ass! That's your ploy, isn't it? You present yourself as 'normal' for a couple of weeks, and then one day you reveal your true nature!"

"What?"

"Don't be stupid, Berwald! Everyone knows what you are now! You're a virus! Something in programming went wrong, and now you're stuck here to destroy—" Red warning lights drowned the bar, silencing everyone. Not a single character moved; the accusatory words died on Arthur's lips.

"_Console is now on. Please report to the Selection Stage." _The mechanic woman's voice rang through the air. Tensions were still high, but no one said a word. Dutifully, everyone began the walk towards the arena, forced to move. Nobody could look Berwald in the eye. He stared at the ground, trying to take his thoughts off of guilt, off of false accusations. He knew he wasn't a virus. He was a fighter. Yet, his body grew colder with each step. He couldn't prove he _wasn't_ a virus. He had the power to refuse. He was a freak.

The Selection was already filled with the missing players. Perhaps they were here this whole time, but everyone had been so preoccupied with chaos that no ne thought of continuing the search. Berwald looked at them painfully—what did they have planned? The last thing he wanted to do was endure work, but now more than ever, he had to do what he was told.


	11. Chapter 11

The workday was surprisingly normal. Alfred was chosen for nearly every fight, and his high score soared ahead by nearly three thousand points. The only difference was the whispering that occurred every time Berwald was in view. His hand rested on Tino's waist, but he wasn't comforted. He loved Tino, but he wasn't an eraser. He had too many problems to be at ease.

Those who didn't stare in anger stared in curiosity. Berwald didn't know what was worse. With every Selection, Feliks's eyes were trained on him; his expression was unfathomable. He was normally very talkative, but today, not even he said a single word. A pit of emptiness grew in Berwald's stomach. As the day went on, he grew more and more certain that he wasn't supposed to exist. The others avoided him like the plague; he hoped desperately that Arthur's accusations would never reach the ears of the lower-ranked players.

Perhaps it would discourage them; once hearing about evil among them, they may abandon all thought of change and instead focus on ridding the game of him. As he probably was a virus, there had to be some way. The thought terrified him. Nobody was supposed to die here. Death was just a blackout—but if everyone wanted him dead, could he kill himself, for their sake?

He squeezed Tino's hand; his mind raced and his face grew hot. Oh God, what if Tino hated him, too? It was a ridiculous thought, but hadn't he considered that maybe Berwald was a mistake?

"Tino," he whispered. He caught the shorter blonde's attention, but he had no idea what to say next. _Promise you won't leave me. Tell me you love me. Take me away from here. _All he could do was press his face against Tino's chest and inhale the scent of pine, of comfort. Tino was all he had left. Berwald suddenly felt vulnerable. He could do nothing to stop the hate the others held for him, could do nothing to prevent potentially dangerous mistakes. It was the helplessness that killed him.

When the day ended, he was ready to fall onto his bed. If anyone tried to storm his apartment, he _would_ fight—he just wanted to be alone. He walked briskly out of the building, only to run into a woman with long blonde hair and sharp facial features. She frowned at him and pulled him away wordlessly.

"Leave me alone," Berwald mumbled. He tried to turn but she pinned him to the wall of the building, her eyes not breaking contact.

"I don't want trouble. I don't even want to talk to you. It's the others that do." She gestured for him to follow. Berwald didn't want to follow her, but if he refused, she would surely challenge him to a fight, and Berwald wasn't feeling up to the challenge. There was no point in fighting her, therefore, there was no point in refusing.

Their walk, for the most part, was spent in silence. After searching his mind for the name to that icy voice, he realized that Natalia Arlovskaya was taking through unfamiliar parts of the city. The alleyways were filthy, the buildings crumbling. Berwald tried not to focus on the death glare she gave him. He had never been alone with Natalia before. He never saw her.

Eventually, she stopped him, in front of what appeared to be a short brick building with a closed-up shop window. Berwald did not know what she could possibly want. Did she even know what he was? She had to, why else would she stare at him with such hate?

"Follow," she instructed, stepping right through the metal barrier. Her body disappeared as if it was liquid. Considering he had figured out a way to bend the rules of the universe, Berwald figured nothing should surprise him anymore. That didn't stop him from eyeing the wall apprehensively. He shrugged and moved through the surface quickly and easily. Furniture-wise, the inside was completely empty. Only one light lit the entire room. The floors were made of the same grey concrete as the Selection room, the walls were made of the same aging bricks as the outside. On that cold floor, several faces stared at him, expressions ranging from anger to curiosity to delight. Immediately, Berwald knew he didn't want to be here.

"This building was intended to serve as an additional arena," a voice Berwald did not recognize emerged from the silence. It belonged to a man with a blonde pudding-bowl haircut and a bespectacled gaze that could only be described as "calculating". Berwald could not think of this man's name. He didn't think he ever learned it. "It was later scraped in favor of more interesting unlockables. The data, however, was never erased from the program." His face was familiar, but he had never heard him speak. "Do not think we know your secret. We do not have what you have." This fighter avoided any eye contact with Berwald, yet all of his attention was directed towards the huge fighter. "And for that reason, you are here." Berwald took a moment to process what this man just said. He sighed as he realized that the world wasn't in any danger, that no one was able to manipulate the game to his or her desires. But relief left as quickly as it came. If none of them had figured out a way . . .

Familiar faces—some vaguely so—surrounded him; he couldn't find the wall he entered through. His stomach felt like a pit. Why hadn't he predicted this? He had allowed himself to follow Natalia blindly, unaware of what it would mean. Why hadn't he challenged her for the right to refuse?

"Won't help you," Berwald insisted. "Caused enough damage already. Don't need to stir up more trouble." Everyone knew as well as Berwald did that he didn't know where the exit to this room was. He was trapped, but he wouldn't give in. Many of the players, however, expected this; groups of them stood against every wall, ensuring Berwald's enclosure.

The man who spoke to him dared to step closer, perhaps finding the courage to stand up to a threatening man with no power.

"No? What you have is extraordinary. Why keep it to yourself?" He glanced around the room, green eyes skimming each face. "Each one of these faces is a life that can be improved. Only you can do this, Berwald." He sighed, pushing the glasses he wore up his nose. "I doubt you'll understand, the life of one who cannot do their job. If your entire purpose in life is to fight, what will become of you if you never have the chance to do so? You begin to live in fantasies. Every day, you bring your hopes up, only to have taller, stronger, _manlier_-looking fighters crush them. You can dream all you want, if it makes it easier to live in hell. Personally, I think it just adds to the pain." To a certain degree, Berwald always knew that he was lucky. It wasn't until then that he felt truly blessed. What would life have been like for him, had he been wimpy, or young-looking, or female? It was strange—he spent his time hoping that he wouldn't get picked, that he wouldn't have to hurt someone . . . anyone in this room should have his opportunities. If all he did was spend his life with Tino, that was fine with him.

"What d'ya want me to do?" he asked, putting a couple of names to faces around the room. Alfred's missing brother watched him, his expression unreadable. Elizaveta curiously stared at him, while Feliks looked eager. Lovino sulked in the corner, resentment in his eyes, yet somehow, Berwald knew there was hope behind them. Otherwise, he would have spoken.

"We need your help, Berwald," Elizaveta clarified. "We have goals, and after that test, we know that you're the only one capable of achieving them." _Test_. Of course there was a meaning behind those locked doors. They weren't running off. They were finding their solution. "Tomorrow, you need to select one of us to be Player One. Anyone of us, any amount of times—as many times as it takes to force the player to fight with us." Discomfort washed over Berwald. He couldn't go through with this. He had messed things up enough with his rule-breaking. These desperate fighters would not take advantage of him. But how to fight back? He may be good, but there was only one of him. Could he lie to them? _No, they've been hurt enough times. _Nobody in this room deserved any more disappointment . . . but he couldn't work with them. He couldn't fulfill their demands without destroying _everyone's_ lives; why couldn't they see that?

"I'll think about it," he shrugged, hiding the fact that an idea came to him. Would it help? Would it hurt? Berwald didn't know anymore. If he was what he thought he was, then he was destined to damage this world. But things had to break before they could be fixed, and the crack he placed on everyone's lives needed to shatter. "I'll do it."


	12. Chapter 12

In Berwald's limited memories, his mother had always told him to do what was right, rather than what was easy. There was no definite way to know if what he was doing fit her morally correct expectations. As he walked into work the next day, he caught sight of other's hate-filled glares. He heard them whisper and watched as they walked away, repulsed by him. After today, that resentment towards him would only grow stronger. But he knew what he had to do—it was just a matter of certainty. Berwald had a plan, but there was no guarantee it would work as smoothly and perfectly as he wanted it to. The rebels had asked him to mess with the system, thinking of him as some kind of savior that would improve their lives. Their illusions deceived them; they had become blinded to the danger of it all. His loyalties did not lie with them but they did not lie against them. Berwald simply needed to shatter their dreams, just to make them see reason. He was well aware of the consequences, but this was simply the only way.

Feliks winked at him as they took their places. Clearly, he was trying to win favor from Berwald. He tore his face away from his pleading, excited eyes. All he would be to Feliks was a disappointment.

"_Player One—" _Berwald focused, his mind on one face. He _had _to fight. If he didn't pick someone who lost regularly, he would be viewed as a traitor. "_Toris Laurinaitis. Toris Laurinaitis, please step forward." _Nobody was allowed to speak, but mutual outrage filled the air. Raivis had to push him off the platform to make him accept that he's actually Player One. Behind the screen that separated the two worlds, the outsider cursed.

"I said Alfred, not this fa—" the boy was interrupted by his mother's shouting, telling him that he had to be downstairs and ready to leave in five minutes. He tried to select Alfred again, but once again, Toris was victorious. "Damn it, I'll just use him . . ." Berwald smirked, his heart pounding. Part of his plan was already working! Now, it had to continue.

"_Computer Player—Berwald Oxenstierna. Berwald Oxenstierna—" _He stepped forward before instructed. Toris stared at him in bewilderment before following him into the arena.

"What the hell are you doing?" Toris demanded, in the split second before the fight began.

"Fixin' things," he insisted. Toris's time to demand answers was cut short by the familiar sound of Round One.

Toris shifted forward on command of the controls, but Berwald made no move to touch him. Instantly, two fast punches struck him in the face. He had high stamina, due to his skill level, but he wished that he had been knocked out. So he ran towards Toris, and stood there. He winced as three critical hits kicked his side; the wind was knocked out of him as Toris punched his stomach. _Am I doing this well enough? _He asked himself. Decided there was more he could do, he ran against the limits of the arena, as if to leave the screen; Toris ran after him and fought him, but Berwald was as unresponsive as the walls of his apartment.

"This is weird," Berwald heard the gamer complain from outside the screen. "He's probably a glitch or something."

Berwald smiled as he fell to the ground, unconscious from Toris's final blow.

The room was hauntingly quiet. All the players were dismissed for the day, yet the usual chattering was absent. Nobody wanted to break the silence, though Berwald knew that everyone had something to say. He had accomplished what he wanted to accomplish—but he knew of the consequences that would follow.

Berwald was the first to leave. The others stood in place, probably frozen with shock or anger. He knew that he should avoid them from then on; if he just left everyone alone, stayed in his apartment when the players were offline, and never spoke a word to anyone, maybe the others would leave him alone, even after what he did.

Everyone else had different plans.

He heard the soft, out-of-rhythm footsteps of Tino approaching him. His round face looked extremely panicked, his face was bright pink from running.

"What have you done?" he asked sweetly. Berwald felt his heart drop. What if he wasn't allowed to speak to Tino ever again? He hadn't considered this. He knew that if he were to put Tino above the good of the game, everyone would remain in danger. How could he live without Tino? Overcome with fear, he wrapped his arms around Tino's waist and rested his head in his soft, pale hair . . . he smelled of pine, of snow, of _Tino_ . . . he had his fighting career ahead of him, but now he'd be associated with a traitor if he continued to see him.

"Tino . . . I had to." He held the Finn tighter as guilt gnawed at his stomach. Tino began to rub his back in calm little circles; it felt so nice, to be touched by Tino . . . how much longer could this last?

"They're angry, Ber . . . they're talking about a plan of action as we speak. You've practically removed yourself from the Selection, and now . . . they want to destroy you, Berwald, but they can't, because it would look suspicious, so nobody knows what to do, and I don't want them to do anything to you!" With a jolt, Berwald realized that Tino had started to sob. Teardrops collected on his shoulder, and he desperately longed to cry with him. The tears never came, and all he was left with was a lump in his throat and the way Tino felt in his arms. "I love you, Ber, and if they try to destroy you—I'll fight them all myself!" His stomach flipped and his face flushed red. He wouldn't loose Tino. Tino wouldn't allow it.

"Don't know what they're going to do with me," Berwald whispered, his voice broken-sounding. "Just wanted to prove you can't mess with the system." More tears landed on the sleeve of his jacket. Tino looked up at him; his eyes were red and puffy from crying, but they were still the most beautiful sight Berwald had ever seen. Removing one of his black gloves, he reached out and touched just below the fighter's eye, where tears had gathered. Moisture gathered at Berwald's fingertip; his face felt soft and smooth. He stared at Tino's pink lips, which were slightly chapped, but still desirable to the tall Swede. He needed to feel what it was like to kiss him. Every part of him ached for the feeling; Tino's eyes fell on Berwald's mouth. He averted them once the taller noticed, cheeks even redder than before. Slowly, Berwald's hands guided Tino's face towards his. With only a moment's hesitation, their lips locked, and Berwald was happier than he had ever been. Tino kissed hesitantly, nervously—but none of that mattered. The feeling was addictive, enthralling, exhilarating: indescribable. He couldn't think of a single word that could pinpoint exactly how much he yearned for this, or how wonderful it felt. His heart was soaring; his chest was floating. It was hard to believe that he could even bear to tear himself away.

The sudden sound of footsteps broke the kiss. He cursed inaudibly as a figure ran towards him. As the man came closer, Berwald saw that Toris was red-faced, out of breath, and extremely worried-looking.

"Berwald!" he exclaimed, heaving for air. He couldn't make any other words come out.

Tino rushed towards him. "How bad is his situation?" he asked, gesturing towards Berwald. Toris's long, stringy hair fell in his face as he shook his head.

"They've formed a council against you, Berwald. I have been sent to deliver their edict." His green eyes lacked excitement; all Berwald saw in Toris was urgency and sadness. "You are a declared and recognized virus of this system. It had been ruled that your existence among us is a threat." Berwald's chest sunk.

"Been expectin' that," he mumbled, wishing the consequences he had imagined weren't real. "Continue."

"Effective today, you are excluded from public life. Because erasing you from the game is both impossible and suspicious, they're decided to place you under house arrest. If anyone is seen in your company, they will suffer a similar fate." He glanced nervously at Tino—what had he been thinking when he planned this? Tino's violet eyes were still processing the horrible news, and Berwald could not bear to watch as the beret-clad man grew concerned for him . . .

"So, that means if anyone is seen with Berwald . . . they'll be arrested?" Toris nodded uncomfortably. When Tino gazed at Berwald again, his eyes were filled with pain. "But that's not fair! Berwald isn't—"

"At this point, nobody knows what Berwald is. All we know is that he's under arrest." He told the truth with a certain dullness. The tone made it clear that the last thing the Lithuanian wanted to do was deliver bad news. "You really shouldn't have done anything."

"Was a risk," Berwald replied. "Tried to stop trouble, you know. Mess with the system, you never fight again. Tell those who try to give up." He stared at Toris intensely, to ensure that he delivered his message.

"You're strange, Berwald. Why am I always under the impression that you're one step ahead of everyone else?" He turned to leave, to turn away from a life that had been destroyed.

"What's your rank?" Toris turned around and smiled.

"Twenty-six," he responded, before walking into the distance. If the result he desired didn't come out of this mess, at least he helped somebody accomplish his dreams.

He squeezed Tino's hand, seeking comfort, but the feeling of his gentle hands in Berwald's only reinforced the truth: he had to part with Tino, and continue to live without him. All he would have to remember him by were ghosts of sweet embraces and soft kisses, the sound of his laughter, the smell of his hair—he couldn't bring himself to day goodbye, let alone admit that he would never see Tino again. Chest sinking, his lips pressed against Tino's forehead. Though it was agony, he turned away. He had to leave immediately, while he could still bear to move away from him . . .

"No," Tino insisted, grabbing the sleeve of Berwald's coat. His large eyes seemed certain, confident. "I'm coming with you."


	13. Chapter 13

Quickly after reaching his apartment, someone locked it from the outside. Berwald knew that he could break the lock if he tried, but he wanted to follow the rules after many days of breaking them. He knew he had to pay a price for what seemed like betrayal to most. He was an example to those who sought to control battles, to gain victory through rebellion. If anyone tried to manipulate or alter this game, he or she would end up trapped in his or her own house, declared a threat and a traitor.

That was why Berwald did it.

Tino paced the small area, walking in circles. Guilt showered the larger of the two. What did Tino do to deserve this? He had a future ahead of him, a social life! Now, he'd decided to throw it all away, just so he could be locked up forever, considered an enemy by those who he'd befriended. Tino needed to leave; he didn't want him to, but this confinement was supposed to be a punishment for just one of them.

"Don't have to do this," he sighed, staring at the now boarded-up window. It darkened the room and made the white walls appear gloomy. Soft feet padded across the room out of rhythm and joined Berwald. "Deserve to be free."

"I believe you're innocent, Ber! I _know_ you are; all they see in you is a difference! Your mind doesn't work the way the rest of them do, so they've called you a virus and locked you up in here. You'll never be chosen to fight again, so you obviously didn't do this for your own good. They could've blamed Toris for this, yet they chose you, because you're not like the others! Why would I want to live out there, listening to them spread hate and lies about you?" Berwald sighed as soft hands massaged his shoulders. The one person he needed in his life stood by his side. The one person he needed to love him risked his career, his other friends, and his life as a free man so he could stand next to him, massaging his shoulders. His face warmed as Tino's soft lips nicked his ear. Berwald smiled, tension leaving his body.

"Love you," he whispered, warmth rising in his chest. He was at ease in a troubled world. He was with Tino.

"Love you too." To hear those words beside him brought light back into the dismal room. To feel his touch brought peace; Berwald thought he needed peace most of all, after this mess. He did what he could to save this world from danger, but now, the fate of this game was in the hands of the other players.

Though the small apartment had quickly grown as hot and stuffy as a personal hell, showing up to work was even worse. When Berwald and Tino entered the Selection Stage, all conversation ceased; scornful looks watched as they took their places silently.

"I'm surprised he still plays," Arthur admitted one day, referring to the boy who mastered the controller and the universe. "He's a bloody idiot, if you ask me. Well, we should all be thankful that Oxenstierna hadn't doomed us all."

The fact that Berwald had no hopes for being chosen to fight didn't affect him at all. In a world of it, fighting became the last thing on his mind. What did bother him was the clear indication that his daring sacrifice had been in vain.

"Clearly we were wrong in asking for your help," Raivis, the teenaged Latvian fighter insisted. "You betrayed us, and we don't appreciate that. Being as you are imprisoned, you are free from our requests." He didn't sound disappointed. Nothing in his young face suggested that Berwald had destroyed his hope.

"Not giving up, are you?" Raivis shrugged.

"Why would we give up—"

"Don't say more than you have to!" Elizaveta's hushed whisper made it all too obvious. Anxiously, she dragged the teenager away, not daring to look at Berwald. His chest deflated. He wanted to say that he had reason for breaking the hearts of those who never fought. He wanted to say that he put the entire population in danger by his staged fight. He wanted to say that Tino had lost his reputation, his friends, and his freedom for the solution to this bottomless crisis. It was a cold feeling, to know that the world hated him because he tried to stop it from becoming a mess. He squeezed Tino's hand, hoping that the ache inside him would disappear. He didn't think it ever would.

The fights had been relatively normal. Berwald and Tino saw no signs of manipulation; every battle was just Alfred fighting the most muscular guys. If anything, it was a relief—but he was still on edge. The underdogs would never stop trying to win, and for them to win, they would have to undermine the system.

"Tino," he asked one long, boring, stuffy day. "Know we're arrested, but can't we have air conditioning?" His precious Tino, the only thing that brightened the gray room, laughed briefly.

"If it gets any hotter, it'll be a sauna in here! I like those, but we'd never be able to wear clothes, but I suppose it won't be _that_ bad . . ." Tino's cheeks turned pinker. "Forget what I just said, I'm just rambling—" a thunderous knock interrupted the two. Confused, they turned to each other.

"You hear that?" Another knock. Tino nodded.

"Maybe someone's made a decision to release you?" it was an overly optimistic approach, but nothing else would make sense.

"Maybe they've come to laugh at us." The shorter shrugged.

"Maybe someone's decided to bring us air conditioning." The sound of a third knock covered Berwald's laughter. "Should we open it?" Berwald walked straight to the door, not knowing what to expect. What could you expect, when the world wanted nothing to do with you—

He was met with two faces. Both had been present at the meeting in the abandoned shop; one was a man with chin-length blonde hair, glasses, and a plain, forgettable face. Berwald only knew him by name: Matthew Williams, Alfred's Canadian brother. The other, Berwald did not know the name of. Her round face was framed by chin-length blonde hair. She appeared to be the victim of male developers, as her breasts were quite large. She waved shyly at him, slightly intimidated. All Berwald could do was stare at the two, utterly confused.

"Can we talk?" Matthew asked, his voice calm and quiet. "Something is terribly wrong, and we think that—we think you can help us." Wordlessly, Berwald ushered them inside. They had taken a huge risk in coming to him. If anyone caught them with him, they would be doomed to the same fate, the same hatred. He didn't want to think of what was wrong; whatever it meant, it had led to two perfectly good people coming to a convicted traitor.

"Don't let anyone catch you here," Tino warned, voicing Berwald's concerns. "What's wrong?"

"The Union of the Silver Blade," Matthew replied. Berwald had never heard that title in his life. He offered the guests seats at his kitchen table. "It's a secret organization of the bottom fighters. You met us, in the abandoned shop?" Berwald gave an affirmative nod. So the lower-ranked players continued to work towards messing with the game, just as he thought, just as Raivis confirmed. Tino, on the other hand, knew nothing. He sat quietly, trying to be polite but still very curious. "You should be familiar with their aims. Needless to say, your fight with Toris disappointed them. They feel that either you didn't understand the task fully or you just wanted to stab us in the back."

"Tried to prove a point," Berwald protested. "I won't mess with the game, not for me, not for anyone. Now that I've broken the rules a couple of times, I'll be viewed as a permanent glitch. Supposed to learn from my example." The blonde woman's eyes widened.

"So that's what you did?" Matthew asked. "It all makes sense now; why else would you deliberately loose a fight?" It really had all been useless. His perfect plan had been filled with holes, and he had ignored them. He'd ruined Tino's life, for no reason at all; suddenly, he was devastated.

"Didn't know what else I was supposed to do." He couldn't satisfy the demands of the others without causing suspicion. He should have done nothing at all—but he couldn't stop himself. It was agony, knowing he caused a problem and it was spiraling out of his control. _Control. _It was what he was desperate for; without it, he stood around his house, panicking silently. Regret would do no good. He had to forget about it and figure out the magnitude of Matthew and his friend's problem.

"So it's true that you didn't plan on helping us," Matthew realized, his tone a little bitter. "Eduard—the guy leading the meeting—told us that you were acting selfish. He's convinced that the Union must take matters into its own hands—"

"It's terrible!" the woman wailed, surprising both Berwald and Tino. "He's suggest that we find the game's code—which could be anywhere, so it'll be a slow process, but if they do find it, they're going to—" she couldn't finish her sentence. An onslaught of tears struck her. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the sound of her loud, uncontainable sobs. To calm her, Matthew began to stroke her back.

"Katyusha, it'll be okay . . . they're not going to figure it out." She continued to cry, making Berwald feel uneasy. He had to know how her sentence ended. Additionally, he had no clue what to do when a woman starts to cry a river in the middle of his kitchen. "There's been talk of deleting top players; it's why she's so upset—"

"Can't do that," Berwald insisted aggressively. Tino's eyes seemed huge.

"That'll upset the balance of the game!" Tino cried. "They're insane! The outsider would notice if Alfred just disappeared, are they even thinking?"

"Wasn't thinking when I fought Toris," Berwald admitted. "Didn't make a difference, and I thought it would . . ."

"Everyone is desperate. None of you know what it's like to be ignored, and yes, I want change so badly it hurts. But I will not destroy my older brother, let alone the whole world, just to be one of the only characters left to play as." The Union's plan sounded so ridiculously impossible, yet it terrified Berwald to no end.

"The plan is to delete Alfred, and then, if no changes are made, they'll move down from there," Katyusha explained, wiping her pretty blue eyes. "I can't do it. I don't have the cruelty to destroy lives, just to improve mine! Not to mention, my brother is ranked second; Natalia wants to quit, but she _can't_, because they'll suspect she's run off with Matthew and me! They think we're weak-willed, not worthy of the cause . . ." she still cried, but her sobs were quieter, less prominent. "If it takes killing and jealousy to be 'worthy', I'd rather be dirt." There was something empowering about Katyusha's tear-ridden speech. People like Raivis and Eduard had shown him that everyone would give anything, even the good of the world, just for the sake of violence. She proved to him that there were values in this world some people found more important. And didn't Tino do the same, by staying by his side? Tino fought for enjoyment, not glory. And Matthew sat in his apartment, despite the risks, to deliver news to Berwald, to announce together with Katyusha that fighting was not worth destruction. For the first time in what seemed like ages, Berwald felt hope rise within him. Maybe others would realize what had been so clear to him. Maybe, everything could turn out right, without Berwald in control of the universe.

"We've come here to make a request," Matthew spoke, calmly and quietly. "We want to stop the Union. I know there's not much you can do locked in here, but . . . maybe this can serve as a meeting place, and maybe we can even find a way to get you out . . . the reason we came to you is because we think that you can find the code before they do. After all, breaking the rules is something you appear to be inexplicably good at." If he found the code, could he temper the fierce personalities that yearned for annihilation? He could restore the world to the way it was, before any of this mess, before he realized he could bend the rules . . . before he realized that there was a beautiful Finnish fighter who he loved more than anything. He wasn't going to make the mistake of jumping to optimistic conclusions. If he found the code first, and returned everything to factory settings, he would never remember Tino, who closed his gorgeous purple eyes when he laughed, or brushed his hand against his that electrified him, whose lips kissed his with such intensity . . .

He never thought that he would have to choose between the world and Tino.


	14. Chapter 14

Two weeks passed. Only a few things changed in Berwald's life. Matthew and Katyusha visited regularly, to try to plot times he could sneak out of his apartment to search for the center of the game. Those attempts were unsuccessful; recently, other fighters have been appointed to patrol the streets. Fortunately, the new patrols had prevented the Union from searching for long, which gave the exiles more time.

Berwald and Tino had spies now. Though Matthew and Katyusha made their resignation very clear, the Union had no idea that Natalia and Feliks evaded the patrols and reported to what had been named the League of Balance after every Union expedition. They came infrequently, to report the same news. Nonetheless, it gave them a sense of reassurance. It made Berwald feel like he could actually accomplish his goals in his steamy prison.

One night, after everyone had left, Berwald sat in bed with Tino, unable to fall asleep. The news of the day was old and useless. He was in a position where looking forward to the next day was difficult. It was a never-ending loop of nothing. Nothing would happen tomorrow. Nothing would be of use to him. He was only allowed to do nothing, go nowhere, and hate himself for it.

Next to him, Tino's eyes widened. He bolted up from his laying position and gasped. Was he having a nightmare? Berwald threw his arms around him; they sunk into Tino's soft skin. He snuggled him and whispered reassurances, hoping he could melt the horror away. Tino stiffened, confused.

"I'm okay, Ber. I just realized something that shocked me." Berwald blushed violently. _How embarrassing_ . . . he distanced himself a little, but left his arm around his lover's shoulders. Tino leaned into Berwald's chest and stared at the wall facing the double bed. "When they arrested you—well, us because I joined you—they didn't even hear your side of the story! They just assumed you were working against them . . . you need a trial, Berwald!" He didn't want to dash Tino's hopes. He wasn't a real fighter. They wouldn't listen to the motives of a virus. "You look so hopeless. Don't you see that the others are wrong, and you need to stand up for yourself?"

"Not wrong," Berwald insisted. "'M a virus."

"I doubt it," Tino specified. "Were you ever unlocked?"

"Yes, but that proves nothing."

"Wouldn't a virus appear out of nowhere, maybe as a result of cheat codes or something?" Tino gazed into Berwald's eyes, begging for him to understand. He had so much hope, so much confidence in his theory . . . Berwald shook his head.

"But I can mess around with the game. That's not normal." He couldn't bear to see Tino so hopeful. He took his eyes off of him. "Never fixed anything like I was supposed to, either." A relaxed hand stroked his arm. Soon, both of Tino's arms pulled him closer to the man he loved. Why did he have to make Tino feel so bad . . . he sounded depressing, but he was only trying to tell the truth. His heart thumped as a kiss grazed his cheek.

"They can't prove anything, Berwald. They can't prove that you're a bad person, or a threat to existence. But I can prove what's right. I can prove that you care about this game, and that you're incredibly kind . . . I will fight them if I have to. Because of them, you don't believe that you are capable of good. You think you're a mistake, because they said you were one. I know that what you did wasn't the best, but you're still good, and you need to remember that!" He forced Berwald to stare into his eyes. His gaze was serious; it almost pressured Berwald into listening to him. He was so naïve. Nobody would listen to him.

Tino stroked his cheek, his eyes still fixed on his. "If we win, we can advance the search. Remember it'll be easier for you to access the control, let alone find it. I think the only way for our cause to advance is if we make everyone see your innocence." His stomach fluttered as his heart drummed as he began to stroke Tino's back. The shorter blonde climbed onto his lap and leaned back; his hair fell by Berwald's chin. He kissed the top of his head, wondering exactly how he had fallen so deeply in love with him. Tino would never abandon him. Instead, he would fight to prove Berwald worthy again. _Fight_. Only now did the word have different contexts. The fight for victory, fight for glory, fight to save the world . . . the fight for freedom. The fight to find happiness. The fight to deserve it.

It was all an endless cycle. Even when he thought he knew another life, it was all just fighting. There would never be a day when it ceased. Tino snuggled closer into Berwald's chest; he hoped his love wouldn't hear it pounding.

"We're meant to fight." Berwald spoke to the air. He accepted, once again, that fighting was a necessity. The only thing that ever changed about life was what one fought for: a chance to prove themselves, for the favor of the gamer, for glory, for love. What were his motives? It seemed impossible that once he longed for glory and favor, like so many others. The day he fought for love had changed him. And now, he fought for the sake of the game.

It had just occurred to him that nobody had called him a virus until those motives changed. Was it a result of his abnormality? He had once been normal, all before Tino . . . before he chose to fight for love. He didn't choose to fall in love, but he had fought for it unwillingly, when he refused to hurt the man who had been so kind to Tino. The man who could loose his life as a consequence of that fight. He defied the game because he defied the motives he was designed to have.

"Not a virus," Berwald stated. In his arms, a soft body rose and fell, his eyelids closed peacefully. He smiled as he rested his chin of Tino's head, knowing sleep would not find him tonight. It didn't have to—Berwald needed to formulate a new plan, anyways.

The next day brought some unexpected changes to Berwald's daily routine.

Alfred and Ludwig battled fiercely on screen. A couple of jealous souls watched hatefully, still longing for change. The others merely watched the contrasting techniques of the two fighters in battle, possibly pondering how to fix personal style in order to win more often. Nobody seemed concerned with Berwald; he hadn't spoken up in all of his time in imprisonment. He hadn't messed up anything since his verdict. Instead of focusing his attention on the fight, he fiddled with his fingers. Matthew's request had seemed valid, but there could possibly be a solution that didn't require resetting the game . . .

The more Berwald thought about the request, the less logical it sounded. If he were to reset the game, wouldn't the player notice? All of the scores would be deleted; some of the characters would become locked again. There was no way it could be the only way to counter the Union of the Silver Blade's recipe for disaster. As long as they kept their current motives, they could never find the controls. The common conclusion was that Berwald had a stronger chance of locating the center of the game. He hoped Matthew would be able to meet him today. Though he was a solitary person, he needed more information to ensure this plan would work.

"May I have everyone's attention?" A sweet voice interrupted his thoughts. He nearly jumped off the couch when Tino stood up next to him, cleared his throat, and began to address a crowd of people who considered him a traitor. "I have something important to say." A couple of people focused on him. Berwald's heart suddenly began to race. If Tino was about to say what he said last night, to all these people . . . he was going to be sick.

"Are you sorry, Tino? Do you claim to have 'changed your ways', and plan to destroy us all?" Arthur inquired. Tino's hands turned to fists that quivered.

"You're in league with the virus! Don't pretend we don't know what you've been planning!" Mathias shouted. A sea of murmurs filled the room. Color appeared on Tino's cheeks, causing Berwald fear. He couldn't see him like this, accused of evil. Fortunately, he opened his mouth to speak.

"How do you know Berwald's trying to destroy us? You've never held a trial for him! He is good, and you—you're just scared of what he can do!"

"He nearly put us out of business!" Vash exclaimed. Many people gave affirmative nods. It wasn't long before the air grew thick with protest. _Traitor . . . evil . . . deserves to die . . . _

It was strange to think that all of this had come out of love.

"_He was trying to save you!_" Tino shouted, his face bright red. Berwald ached to comfort him but he restrained himself. If he embraced his lover, the harsh accusations would only intensify. "He put himself out of the game on purpose, so nobody tries to mess with it!"

"Nobody was messing with the game but him," Raivis insisted. The Swede smacked himself on the forehead mentally. Now Raivis would know that he and Tino were suspicious of him and the gang of hopefuls. Many agreed, either out of oblivion or for the sake of cover.

"Don't tell me that you weren't using him as an example," Tino growled, walking closer to the teenaged fighter. "Don't tell me you have nothing planned!"

"What a horrible accusation!" Raivis cried. "You really think I would challenge the norms of the universe?"

"I think you would," Tino insisted. "I think half the people in this room would."

"Tino," Berwald whispered. "Shut up." Nobody could hear him. The protests in the room drowned his urgent command.

"Tino, you are only embarrassing yourself," Natalia stated. Berwald was eternally grateful for her. Her extra scowl served as reinforcement. "To suggest that anyone would want to destroy the world . . . you've been hanging around Berwald too long." It was hard to tell whether Natalia's words were sincere or not. She was brutal, but she trusted the resistance movement enough to keep their secrets. Whether she was lying or not, most of the room seemed to agree with her. Tino still stood face-to-face with Raivis, but his throat seemed to be stuck. His confidence had run dry; the sight was painful. They attacked Tino with their words, and Berwald could do nothing. He was never good at speaking to a crowd, and he never wanted to before. _They're hurting him, _he thought. _You need to defend him. You need to defend yourself._

""M not a virus!" He did not hear himself speak yet the entire room turned towards him. The silence was instantaneous, haunting. Pairs of eyes watched him expectantly. Was he supposed to say more? He had to—they would resume their attacks on Tino if he didn't. "Thought I heard people planning to mess with the game. Tried to prove you couldn't, or else you never fight. Now, the gamer thinks 'm a glitch. None of you are in trouble, just me." He was mumbling. He couldn't raise his voice; every fighter in the room strained to hear what he had to say. "Sorry for the trouble." He nodded to indicate he had finished speaking. That very moment, the fight between Ludwig and Alfred ended, Ludwig victorious. Nobody seemed to care. All that mattered was that Berwald spoke out, and had publicly apologized for his actions. What concerned people was not that Alfred's winning streak had been broken, but that Tino accused others of plotting destruction.

The walk to the Selection Stage was silent.


	15. Chapter 15

Tino slammed his fists on the kitchen table. "How _dare_ they? They knew they were plotting something! Toris told them, a while ago . . . remember, Berwald? How dare they accuse me of lying?" His eyes met Natalia's violently. The League members sat around Berwald's table and listened to Tino's rage. Natalia did not react to the hateful glare he gave her. Instead, she crossed her arms and frowned. "You—you added to their hate! Are you really part of our cause?"

"If you were part of the cause, you would have kept your mouth shut," she spat, her eyes locked on Tino's outraged expression. "What happened to secrecy? You do realize they'll be suspicious of us now, and you accuse me of betrayal? I was saving the cause you were working to destroy!"

"Please stop fighting!" Katyusha begged. "We are all working to stop character destruction! Can we leave it at that?"

"It was such a dumb thing to say," Feliks added, ignoring the short-haired woman next to him. "You could've totally got us in deeper trouble, for real." He leaned onto the kitchen table lazily, as if he had already lost interest in the conversation. Tino frowned at him; he opened his mouth to protest, but the words were lost.

Berwald stroked his arm in reassurance. "Let's just talk 'bout the plan. 've got a new one." The table fell silent, though Natalia looked as if she was biting her lips, trying not to insult Tino.

"What is it?" prompted Matthew, watching Berwald with curiosity. He folded his hands, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Have a theory," he began, well-aware of the five who watched him. "If 's true, it means I don't have to reset the world, which would only hurt our goals. Our old plan was to find the controls first, and go from there. Doesn't seem necessary." He paused, the words still forming in his mind. "What are they fighting for?"

He was met with silence.

"It's their job," Feliks answered after a while. "Duh."

"They fight 'cause they want to win. They fight 'cause they want to do their job, and they can't. They fight 'cause they want to." Nobody raised objection; his audience was transfixed on his words, trying to find where he was going with this. "What happens when they don't want to fight?"

"They turn out like you!" Tino exclaimed, suddenly understanding his plan. "Don't you remember? Berwald lost all of his recent fights because he wanted to loose. He wanted to stop fighting—that's why he has so much control, not because he's bad!"

"As long as it's still about the fight, in theory, nobody but Berwald can locate the controls," Matthew added. Berwald nodded. Excitement rose within him, as well as confidence.

Feliks lifted his head from the table, suddenly concerned. "So they'll spend eternity fighting a loosing battle? That totally sucks! We're just going to sit here, like nothing happened, as they secretly try to change lives that will never improve?" He frowned at his realization. "Don't they deserve better?"

"After their threats to Ivan's existence, they deserve nothing," Natasha argued fiercely. "Especially not our sympathy."

"They are still people, with goals like ours," Feliks insisted. "We want to fight. We're just lucky we know to stop trying to find a way."

"You are suggesting, in front of the leader of this countermovement, that you want to betray him."

"Like, no! You are reading me all wrong! I just feel bad, okay?" He crossed his arms and stared down at the table. "I'm not betraying anyone."

Berwald knew that Feliks had a point. He didn't know what he was supposed to do about it, but it made him more aware of whom the people in his apartment were. They risked their public image in order to meet him, yet they received no benefits. Working with Berwald would not make them more likely to fight. It would mark them as outcasts instead.

He felt horribly guilty. He was not doing enough for them, and they tried to do so much for him . . . he forgot all that he was going to say. The faces that watched him and listened to him—even respected him—gained nothing. They were fighting a loosing battle as well—only they were fully aware of it.

It hit him that these people no longer cared about fighting.

"Any 'f you can find the controls," he announced. "Just have to put your mind to it. Natalia and Feliks are charged with nothing, and Matthew and Katyusha are only charged with betrayal to the Union . . ." The wheels of thought turned in his head, faster and faster, until he could no longer comprehend the situation. He needed his spies to ensure that their motives stuck. Perhaps it was all written in the code of the game . . . if that was the case, the code could be changed to quell rebellious personalities . . . he could alter their free will . . .

A fierce rapping on the door broke Berwald's train of thought. It couldn't possibly be anyone else, not unless more players wanted to join the League of Balance. He couldn't be sure of the fact without checking the door. Silently, he stood and walked towards the door. The rapping continued.

"We are members of the Council of Hetalia. We've been sent here to check on you, Oxenstierna." The voice bore an American accent. Of course the top-scoring fighter would be a member of the group responsible for his exile. "Open the door this instant. This is an order."

"We know there are other people there; don't try to hide them." He recognized Arthur's voice immediately. He froze, a thousand thoughts racing through his head at once. Why were they here? He turned to the group, who looked just as terrified as Berwald.

"What's going on?" Tino asked as the pounding on the door increased. His guests made a mad dash for his bedroom as a crash filled the room. Alfred had managed to send the door to the ground, exposing the apartment. Berwald's gaze shifted to the figures in his doorway. Arthur narrowed his eyes as he examined the scene. Only Tino and he remained in the open areas of his apartment; they tried to look as innocent as possible.

"Everything's in order," Tino suggested sweetly. "If you heard other voices, that's just Berwald telling stories to me. He does a great Feliks impersonation, don't you, Ber?" Arthur seized Tino by the collar and glared at him.

"Where are the others?" He wanted to shove the Council member aside, before he hurt his love. Alfred stepped in front of him, blocking him effectively.

"We ain't leaving until we see the others," he claimed. "What are you planning, anyways?"

"Wouldn't be so eager to break up the meeting 'f I were you," Berwald snarled. "Concerns your health and safety."

"Don't try to mess with me, Oxenstierna."

"Why were you sent here?" Alfred gestured towards Tino, who was nodding timidly, still in Arthur's clutches.

"I've been told that his behavior today was suspicious, and as he is in league with you, it's obvious that you guys are up to something." He felt the briefest flash of anger towards Tino. Perhaps he had forgiven the shorter fighter too easily. He shook it off immediately, ashamed. Tino had been defending him—he didn't mean trouble. He redirected his anger at the intruders.

"Alfred, search the rest of the apartment. Knock down every door, if you have to. Arrest the lot of them." The color drained from Berwald's face. He had led others to suffer, and it wasn't fair. His worst fears were now his reality.

"Did nothing wrong," Berwald insisted. "Punish me instead!"

"You're admitting there's others here," Arthur smirked, his gleeful expression stabbing Berwald in the chest. "Don't think you're going to stay here and live in peace. We've set up proper prisons, surrounded by guards every second of every day." He couldn't respond to that. He opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't think of any words that would change Arthur's mind.

"Thought I explained my perspective," he muttered, causing thick blonde eyebrows to raise. Surely, he remembered what he had said in the lounge earlier. "You remember what Toris said, awhile ago? He said that people would break the rules of the game. He never meant me." A bout of angry protesting emerged from his bedroom. Berwald frowned, eyes boring into Arthur's. "I don't think anyone who want to will be able to change things around here. Society's transfixed, and 's not always the best, especially to fighters never fight, but 's not going to change."

"It changed the day you forced yourself to loose," Arthur stated, Berwald shaking his head.

"Never forced myself to loose," he realized. "Just decided not to win. Anyone can make that decision, just as easily, but nobody would. That's why we're safe."

"I have strict orders, Berwald. The Council is composed of the top ten fighters—without you, of course—and if none of them see you locked up, I'll move in next door to your cell. You have led five others to follow you. Don't you know what you are, Berwald?"

"'M not a virus."

"You're the image of rebellion. People have tried to use you to break the rules, I've been told—is that correct?"

"Didn't work," Berwald claimed. "Told you why I did it."

"That doesn't change who the public thinks you are," Arthur informed him. "The public thinks you belong in prison, away from everything and everyone you love. They believe that you have betrayed us all, whether you believe it or not." Protesting would not work, though the air was thick with shouts and shoves. The two men that had interrupted their meeting lead them out of the room, pushing and ordering the six to follow.

"We have no choice," Berwald sighed. "Don't need more trouble."

"Are you giving up, Berwald?" Natalia asked coldly. "Are you going to let them lock you away and despise you?"

"What are you supposed to do about it?" Her eyes glinted with energy.

"I say we fight."


	16. Chapter 16

Natalia took one step outside and lost it. Eyes gleaming with viciousness and fervidity, she took a fraction of a second to spin around and land a punch on Arthur's nose. Her captor stumbled backwards, leaving the fierce woman with time to strike again. The blonde man recovered quickly, without hesitating to throw an ice spell hurling towards her. She froze for a second; Arthur tried to grab her, but she broke free of his curse and proceeded to draw a short blade out of her pocket.

"Just try to capture me," she spoke, her voice sharp and icy. She jumped out of the way as Arthur lunged towards her, now wielding flames. A streak of blonde approached the guard from behind and landed a punch. Feliks watched him fall in satisfaction.

"You so don't mess with us," he insisted, only to come face-to-face with Alfred.

"You've pissed off the wrong people," the muscular fighter stated, landing two successive punches on his chest. Feliks squealed and ran behind Matthew, who had been watching the scene in horror. Alfred ran up to them, preparing to attack, but he promptly froze at the sight of Matthew. Up close, their similarities became very clear. Their blonde hair was the same shade and their faces bore a family resemblance. When Alfred spoke again, his voice was lower and darker. "You really want to betray me, don't you?"

Matthew looked straight into his eyes. "I only joined this side to save you. You know just as well as anyone that there are people who want to erase your very existence. I needed to make sure that didn't happen." Arthur stood up and ran, leaving a smile on Natalia's face. Most focused on the conversation between Alfred and Matthew, however.

"Siding with a traitor will not save me," Alfred responded coldly. Matthew grabbed his shoulders firmly and inched his face closer to his.

"You'd be surprised how badly out-of-character you're portraying Berwald. Everyone thinks he's some evil criminal mastermind—he's trying to save the world! He's made mistakes and taken risks, but it's all for a reason, and that reason is to save you! People want to delete your code, and they're not going to stop, even though it's impossible. They won't stop, and I won't stop what I'm doing until they give it up." Alfred's expression did not change. He remained still, as if he was unsure of what to do next. In the silence, Matthew looked like he felt that Alfred could believe him.

"Jealousy will never go away, Matt. There's nothing you can do." Matthew's arms fell back to his side. For a moment, the two brothers exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of the silence between them. Every witness watched the brothers; Arthur had fled. Alfred could give up the fight. Perhaps Natalia's plan worked better than Berwald had anticipated.

But the blonde mage had returned, with several others behind him. Brandishing swords and fists, the fighters charged, initiating the battle once again. Berwald leapt away from what would have been a critical hit; his attacker, Francis, shouted in frustration and tried again. In the distance, Tino was face-to-face with Sadiq, the Turkish fighter than Berwald had once beaten easily. The desire to rush over to Tino's side and defend him consumed him, but he appeared to be holding his own quite well. After all, there had been a reason why the lesser fighters had once been so jealous of him.

Francis cursed, failing to hit Berwald for the tenth consecutive time. He wasn't quite used to the tactic he employed, but he couldn't engage in battle. Though those around him begged to differ, a fight would only worsen the circumstances. The group had been so easily outnumbered, so quickly. He was good, and he didn't doubt that the members of his group could fight, but he couldn't see how a tiny group of nobodies on the leaderboard and himself, a man who no longer wished to fight, could defeat the highest ranked players in the game. When his eyes wandered over to Tino, he found that Mathias and his war axe had joined Sadiq. A glowing blue slash interrupted his thoughts and drew his focus back to his attacker.

"Aren't you going to hit me?" Francis asked, smirking. "What's stopping you from a challenge?" Berwald jumped out of harm's way, his eyes still jumping to Tino. He was putting up a strong fight—but the blows rained down on him, and he was dangerously close to loosing consciousness. The fights elsewhere were equally devastating. Natalia's swift, sharp technique could not damage her three opponents effectively. Katyusha and Feliks tried to stand their ground, facing the deadly duo of Alfred and Ivan. Though the strong Russian man looked thoroughly uncomfortable fighting his sister, he knocked her out easily with one flick of his water pipe. Berwald himself felt he would fall with them. Francis's strikes were growing in accuracy, and the taller, stronger fighter dodged them less and less. The slashes induced pain, but he gritted his teeth and continued to endure them. He was outnumbered and he was hated. He didn't need to add more fire.

"Fight me, damn it! Is this really how you want to go down?" His attacker seemed more and more desperate for counteraction. Berwald, however, continued to refuse.

"Need to show 'm not a rebel," he insisted, leaping out of the range of Francis's sword. "Won't fight you." He raised an eyebrow, and a moment later, sheathed his sword.

"You'd rather be imprisoned quietly?" he asked in disbelief. Berwald nodded, only adding to Francis's curiosity. "You won't even stand up for your friends who have fallen?" He was trying to provoke Berwald. He had to be. Why hadn't he rushed over to Tino's side? The blonde-haired, sweet-voiced Finn was lying on the ground, eyes opening to the fact that he had just lost the fight. Around him, the others followed suit. The guards smiled and cheered, satisfied with their victory. Berwald stared at the scene, not knowing what to feel. He had allowed his friends to fight a losing battle, and he had done nothing to stop it. Natalia had been right. He had given up.

"You cannot argue with your fate," Arthur announced, drawing the attention of everyone around him. "You tried to fight for your freedom, but in the end, the Council of Hetalia prevails. All of you have been aware of the fact that anyone seen in the presence of Berwald Oxenstierna must suffer a similar fate. No amount of fighting can change that." The only sound in the atmosphere was the steady voice of the man who spoke. Berwald found Tino's eyes; a pit opened inside him when he saw how defeated they looked. What if he had brought himself to fight? He could never repay those who had fought for him, especially now, when he had refused to help them. He wanted to smack himself, or slice his flesh a thousand times with Francis's blade. Arthur continued, as if Berwald was perfectly capable of listening to what he needed to say. "Therefore, Natalia Arlovskaya, Feliks Lukasiewecz, Matthew Williams, Katyusha Braginskaya, and Tino Vainamoinen are sentenced to newly-constructed, high-security prisons." It took a second to notice something wrong. Berwald was not listed among the condemned. He tried to protest, but Arthur cut him off. "Berwald Oxenstierna cannot run free. However, he refused to assault Council members. Because of this reason, he shall continue to live as is, under house arrest. More security is needed—we may employ guards . . ." His words faded away as reality struck Berwald, harder than ever. Not only did he cause the imprisonment of innocent people, but Tino, his sweet-faced, beautiful love would be taken away from him. He would be forced to live alone, with only dreams and memories of resting by his side. His life would feel empty, the way it had been before Tino had been unlocked that fateful day. Berwald had run out of solutions for his problems. His plans only ever caused more trouble. His plans only ever led to more pain and suffering. He was digging a pit for himself, and others had fallen in. He knew he deserved this, yet he couldn't bear to accept it. Those bright, violet eyes bore into his; they still held concern and fear. Berwald frowned, immediately wishing he could cry. His greatest fear was to be separated from Tino, and he had been spared from it many times before. This time, Berwald would truly have to live a life without him.

The Council members ushered his friends—those who he had betrayed—away, leaving him to turn around and enter his prison once more. They forced Tino's head away, and the last he saw of his adorable fighter was the back of his soft, pale hair. As he reached his apartment shut the door behind him, he realized it was over. There was nothing left for him to fight for.


End file.
